


Life Between The Sharp Edges Of A Broken Heart

by TeelLilies



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (more like torment), (not suicidal), Alternate Universe - Hanahaki Disease, Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Definitely mentions of past trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff, Geralt can have a little Longing, Geralt is decidedly Not Okay, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Overstimulation, Pining, Roach, Slow Burn, Thoughts about death/dying, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, as a treat, because she's the emotionally stable one, eventually, in case the 'throwing up flowers' thing didn't queue you in
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 38,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24819979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeelLilies/pseuds/TeelLilies
Summary: In a moment, Geralt’s world screeched to a shuddering halt.Destiny was a cruel, fickle bitch.And her oh-so-kind reminder of that stared up at him from his palm.A single, delicate petal.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 62
Kudos: 221
Collections: The Witcher





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've seen an upsetting lack of Hanahaki fics where Geralt is the one with it. Which is tragic considering just... how he is as a character in general. 
> 
> Anyways this is my first published Witcher fic, please be gentle with me I'm doing my best.

The melody of a lively forest seemed far louder than normal without a fire crackling nearby. Between the sound of nature and the steady scrape of a brush over Roach’s side, it was almost deafening. 

Nights spent with Jaskier at his side weren’t usually so quiet. Oftentimes the space was filled with the bards idle chatter. More often than not, Geralt was content to let Jaskier ramble on. Sometimes it was about some new romantic conquest, other times Jaskier simply seemed all too excited to fill the witcher in on whatever he had missed since the last time they had traveled with each other. His silence was almost unusual, but given that he could hear the scribble of charcoal on parchment somewhere behind him, he figured Jaskier was busy with something else. 

When it came to Jaskier, he didn’t mind the quiet sometimes. Granted, Geralt was always acutely aware of Jaskier’s presence near him. Even then he could pinpoint exactly where Jaskier had settled against a tree for the evening. He knew how the other man would be sitting, doublet open and half-off his shoulders given how hot it was. Hence the lack of fire. The witcher knew how Jaskier would have one of his knees pulled up to prop a notebook against, occasionally pausing to stare into space between his scribblings. 

It was familiar, almost comforting. More than Geralt would like to admit, in all honesty. 

Jaskier’s presence had been grating at first, his very existence could have been equated to a personification of having teeth pulled. Of course it was nothing Geralt wasn’t used to, over time he had begun to expect life, and destiny, to slight him at any chance, and he saw the bard trailing him as just another one of those things. But over time, much time, Jaskier’s presence had grown less and less obnoxious. It endlessly baffled Geralt that Jaskier wanted to be anywhere near him, more so that he kept  _ returning.  _ Relentlessly, it seemed. 

“Geralt?” The sudden break of the quiet didn’t make Geralt startle, he simply paused in his grooming of Roach. While he offered no more than a hum of acknowledgement that Jaskier spoke, the bard forged on. 

“What was that- that  _ thing  _ that you fought a few towns back. You know, with the deer skull on its head and whatnot.” Jaskier’s words were accompanied by the shift of cloth, like Jaskier was making some sort of hand motion as he spoke.

The ‘thing’ Jaskier spoke of, had given Geralt quite a run for his coin, was the bard documenting another of Geralt’s so-called victories? 

“A leshen.” Geralt replied with a sigh. He wouldn’t ask into whatever Jaskier was doing. Though some kind of unwanted fondness curled somewhere within his chest. Jaskier’s stubborn need to document every aspect of a witcher’s stories had begun to amuse him at times. Of course, nothing that he would ever give Jaskier the satisfaction of seeing. It was already strange enough that he insisted on sticking around without any expectation of reward for being in such close proximity with a monster for extended periods of time. Geralt had never understood, why Jaskier put himself in the way of possible danger. For what? For poor company? To be driven out of towns simply because there would always be people who were terrified of Geralt’s kind? He would never understand Jaskier’s insistence on such things. 

“Leshen….” Jaskier echoed, drawing out the n as his scribbling resumed.

“What are those again?” He spoke absentmindedly, scratching something out as Geralt rummaged through his packs for the pick he used to clean Roach’s hooves. 

“They’re forest spirits.” He explained, coming back up with the pick before he led Roach over to a rock so he could sit and get at her hooves properly. He was used to caring for her on the road, and oftentimes even when they were in towns, he didn’t trust stablehands to take care of her as carefully as he did. 

That and oftentimes she didn’t let other people pick her feet up with the ease Geralt did. He was swift to do just that as he settled himself, resting the horse’s ankle between his knees as he began to pick the dirt and the like from her front hoof. 

“They protect forests, but it makes them dangerous to humans when they get too close.” Geralt spoke again, his words coming between the scratches of a metal tool. Jaskier made a noise of interest, his own work pausing as Geralt twisted to grab at his pack to pull out the coarse brush he’d forgotten. 

“Seems a lot of things only get dangerous when humans start to meddle.” Jaskier mused. It earned a nod of agreement from Geralt, though he didn’t look up from his work. Roach simply stood amicably still, occasionally bending down to lip at the grass, or Geralt’s knee if he was taking too long for her liking. 

After that the pair simply fell into the quiet of the oppressively hot night, Jaskier eventually thrusting rations at Geralt once the witcher had finished caring for his horse. He’d made a note to get her re-shod the next town they stopped at, but otherwise simply fed her for the night before tying her up and allowing himself to rest. 

~

The days of summer seemed to drag on, sometimes heat getting bad enough that Geralt would detour from the road to allow Roach to wade through a creek or something of the like so she could cool off, piling his gear and her tack on the side while he and Jaskier watched her. Jaskier would often make comments about how they’d end up turning her into some sort of water spirit without meaning to as he soaked his feet in cold water. 

Unfortunately, things weren’t always peaceful. There was always another task along the Path. That was the nature of it, of course. Geralt knew that as well as any of his kind. There would never be rest for him or his brothers, until the grave claimed him at least. And eventually there would be no more of them. What would happen to the world then, Geralt had no idea, but he supposed it would no longer be his problem. 

Either way he was still kicking and that meant he would still continue the unending slog of ungrateful townsfolk and the kinds of monsters that could slay healthy humans without batting an eyelash. 

Nevertheless, he persisted. 

“You’ll be seein’ the Alderman, witcher.” The innkeep ground out around a pipe as he stared down the man in front of him. The man was full around the waist, burly compared to the others in town. Perhaps he didn’t suffer lean seasons as often, given the inn’s popularity. Either way, Geralt silently resented the need to go tracking to other people in town. Sometimes innkeeps could direct him to individuals having problems at very least. Or at least provide him with some sort of information. 

But Geralt wasn’t going to push anything, he never did. It wasn’t too out of the ordinary for him. Most folks weren’t overly fond of his kind, or worse, outright hateful towards them. Seeing as there hadn’t been any blatant threats thrown at him he would continue on. He’d leave negotiating room and board to Jaskier, who had wandered off to the town market while Geralt had scouted the town’s only inn. He could at least be trusted with figuring out that much. 

For the time being Geralt took himself to the Alderman’s, leading Roach along by the reins to avoid more unwelcome attention. Having to seek out more people was bad enough. 

The rest of it was routine enough, finding the Alderman, listening to the rumors of wraiths too close to comfort. Not the worst job he’d taken or would ever take. Wraiths could be pesky, annoying more than anything. But they still weren’t to be trifled with in the end, and Geralt wasn’t one to charge into anything recklessly. He was confident that he would be able to return to the inn later to clean up and make sure nobody had run Jaskier out of town for being too loud, or obnoxious, or too… anything, really. Jaskier had a habit of being more than a lot of normal folk could handle. At least in certain parts. 

Geralt had time enough to think on the walk out of town. While Roach may have been useful in transport, he wasn’t going to risk her getting clipped by something if he didn’t have to. Wraiths were enough of a challenge when he was alone, he didn’t know how many there were or how long the job would take him, but he wasn’t going to take risks with her. 

However, Geralt did allow his mind to wander slightly as he wove through people. Touching on thoughts of being able to take his gear off after the hunt, perhaps even indulging in a hot bath if he could. After about a week on the road, being able to take a good soak and work some of the tension out of his back and shoulders sounded like a dream. And while he knew he didn’t really deserve all that much in life, what was the harm in small luxuries every now and then? Geralt had plenty of stream baths ahead of him to make up for it, he supposed. 

Either way the hunt at hand was far more important. Geralt was soon turning his attention back to that as he began to leave houses behind, instead focusing on what was to come. 

He allowed his senses to stretch out, listening for anything abnormal and scanning the trees for any kind of movement. Between tracking the odd bird or small animal in the undergrowth, the walk was quiet. And all too soon Geralt was moving in on the area he’d been warned about, reaching up to lay fingertips against the silver sword slung across his back. 

The first howl of a wraith finally hit him, and as dusk began to fall on the forest, Geralt pulled a sword from its sheath and set to work. 

Darkness had long since fallen by the time Geralt was finished. The forest around him had gone quiet, animals fleeing the shrieks of the dead and the sound of the fight. The silence was near stifling, wind barely moving the trees above as Geralt stood in a clearing, catching his breath. 

Blood streamed lukewarm down one side of his face, dripping slowly onto the leaves below as he took in the moonlight and caught his breath. There would be time later to take inventory of what injuries he’d sustained. But given the presence of more wraiths than he had expected, and what little information he had to go on, he was doing well enough to allow himself a moment to breathe. 

Eventually, after taking in the swiftly cooling night air for a few long moments, Geralt turned himself to make the trek back to town. 

His gait was slower upon his return, measured to avoid irritating the wound wrapping down his thigh more than he had to. With any luck the flesh would bind together again by morning, but for the time being it was still oozing blood down his leg. With how low his body temperature was normally, his own blood was still warm enough to be uncomfortable when it stuck the fabric of his clothing to his skin. 

Despite the uncomfortable, sticky walk back to the inn, Geralt made it just fine. Soon enough he’d trudged himself up the stairs to the room where Jaskier had presumably made himself comfortable for the night. 

He wasn’t surprised when Jaskier was still awake. The bard had a bad habit of staying up to wait for him when he went out on hunts. It was something Geralt simply had to get used to. Though, admittedly, it was a bit better than returning to an empty inn room, or a clearing far enough from the road where he wouldn’t be disturbed. 

Jaskier’s presence was impossible to miss though, especially when he was immediately looking Geralt over like he was analyzing him. 

“You’re hurt.” He spoke up, a frown creasing his features as he pushed himself from where he’d been lounging. Geralt just waved a hand at him, shrugging his swords off his back to set them in a chair near the door. 

“They’ll heal by morning.” The attempt to wave Jaskier off was vague at that point. He was too used to the bard’s confusing desire to try and take care of him. Surely it stemmed from some feeling of obligation that came from travelling alongside the witcher, Geralt was certain that was the only reason for that kind of concern. After all, if he was dead, who would protect Jaskier during the times they would have usually spent travelling together? 

“Let me draw you a bath at least, you stubborn prick. You look like something a dog dragged in.” Jaskier’s voice held thinly veiled concern of some variety. Something that always caught Geralt slightly off guard. Between Jaskier’s stubbornness in sticking around with the witcher, and the way he seemed to care, it seemed as if Jaskier would never make sense. 

The lack of response beyond a quiet grunt was enough of a response for Jaskier, and the bard was quick to get moving. 

In no time at all, Geralt was easing himself into nearly too-hot water as Jaskier puttered about in the background. Fresh wounds pulsed with discomfort at the heat, but went ignored in favor of Geralt allowing himself to sink low into the water. Stifling a sigh of satisfaction was difficult, up to his nose in clean, hot water. The wooden tub wasn’t as deep as some, meaning he had to pull his legs up slightly, leaving knees exposed, but he had dealt with worse. 

Jaskier was blessedly quiet for once, allowing Geralt a moment to relax as he listened to Jaskier moving about, the sound of him rummaging through packs for a moment before the bed creaked and there was, once more, silence. 

It was easy to soak up, Geralt letting his eyes slip closed as he folded his arms across his abdomen and tipped his head back against the edge of the tub. He hadn’t realized quite how drained the fight had left him until sleep started to try to tug at him, his breath evening out as he took in the calm atmosphere. The inn didn’t boast complete safety, per se, but under the watch of the other man in the room, it would be a stretch to say Geralt felt  _ unsafe _ . Jaskier was perhaps the only person he could trust enough to sleep around normally, let alone enough to doze off without meaning to. 

Which he didn’t realize he had done until a voice jumped him awake. 

“You’re going to drown yourself like that.” Jaskier’s voice was tinted with a laugh as Geralt woke abruptly, realizing the water was noticeably cooler than when he’d climbed into the tub in the first place. 

He mustered a low grumble before there was hot water being poured into the tub once more, making him blink as he pushed himself up slightly. Jaskier stood between the tub and the fire, backlit against it as he set the cauldron back on the hearth before he straightened once more, motioning for Geralt to sit forward more. 

“Here let me handle this mess.” The bard gestured vaguely to Geralt’s hair and face, earning himself a raised eyebrow from the witcher. And while he couldn’t make out Jaskier’s eyes very well when the other man was backlit, he could practically hear them roll. It served to only deepen the scowl across Geralt’s features as Jaskier made to move behind him anyways. 

“You had a long hunt, you’re falling asleep in the bath-” Jaskier pointed out, stepping out of Geralt’s point of view. 

“- I’m willing to bet money you’ll fall asleep again if I let you-” That much may have had some merit, as Geralt’s eyelids were still heavy and his heart rate had yet to pick back up. 

“- so, may as well let me handle it.” There was the scrape of a chair across the floor before the shuffle of clothing as Jaskier seated himself behind Geralt. The whole affair had the witcher pausing for a long moment to consider. Jaskier had been around while Geralt had bathed before of course. Neither of them had really had any reservations about that sort of thing, and oftentimes Jaskier was there to make conversation and throw things Geralt didn’t ask for into his baths. Even if the witcher did, admittedly, sometimes enjoy the smells of fragrant oils and salts Jaskier may have added. 

He’d never allowed the other man to do something like handle his hair, or any of him for that matter really. Geralt wasn’t keen on letting many people touch him anyways. Save for the odd exception. But… Jaskier was safe. Compared to other humans, Jaskier had been nothing but accepting, a constant over a few years at that point. He always seemed to return, and had never had any fear of Geralt as far as he was aware. 

While Geralt offered no auditory response, he shifted back a bit, crossing his arms over his legs and tipping his head back slightly to allow Jaskier a better angle. 

It took only a beat before there was warm water being scooped from the tub to wet his hair properly. The whole process was already more delicate than Geralt’s usual method of dunking himself or unceremoniously dumping a bucket over his own head. Hands tipped his head back further before they were raking his hair back from his face. 

Calloused fingers brushed over skin briefly before beginning to work soap through the roots of white hair. Geralt couldn’t help but allow his eyes to drop closed once more, focused near entirely on the fingers dragging through his hair. The contact was unusual, sending small shivers down his spine every time fingertips raked over his scalp, massaging blood from where a wound had previously dotted Geralt’s head. It’d already healed over, but blood still clotted his hair enough to warrant Jaskier working through that spot a few times. 

In all his life, Geralt couldn’t remember a time when he’d had someone wash his hair. Not even before Kaer Morhen. The sensation was… strange, but not unwelcome. Jaskier’s touch was gentle in a way that was vastly unfamiliar to Geralt. Usually he paid his hair only enough attention to tie it out of his way or brush it on the odd occasion. But Jaskier seemed to take his time, working soap from the root of Geralt’s hair, to the very ends, before he was rinsing it carefully. 

Geralt assumed that was the end of things, but was surprised when Jaskier’s hands returned. Admittedly, he gave no protest to that. Though just that fact had shame curling somewhere deep in his gut. He shouldn’t have allowed Jaskier that close, nor should he have been allowing himself to  _ enjoy  _ the touch in any kind of way. He had done nothing to deserve such a thing. In fact, he was the last that deserved to enjoy any kind of touch. 

He remained silent though, not responding to the slight tugs as he realized Jaskier was working knots from his hair. Deft fingers wove easily through his hair, pulling knots apart gently. It was wildly different to how Geralt usually raked a brush through, without any regard to the brief discomfort it usually caused him. In fact it was pleasant, in a way that Geralt wished he didn’t enjoy. 

While he had allowed himself to let his eyes close once more, Geralt didn’t relax, nor did he allow himself to doze again. He was  _ very  _ awake, aware of every little movement behind him until Jaskier finished. Both far too soon, and not soon enough. He announced he was finished as he stood, allowing Geralt another few minutes to steep himself in the bath as he listened to the crackle of the fire. 

He sunk down once more, ducking down until the water was just under his nose as he turned his eyes to the fire. 

Something about the way Jaskier had been so damn delicate seemed to nag at him. Geralt knew how the bard was, surely it was nothing special that he should be so gentle with the witcher. While Jaskier likely didn’t often help others bathe, perhaps he did. Perhaps the delicate touch came with helping some past love with their affairs. Yes, that was it. 

Still it continued to play over and over in Geralt’s head. Not only the touch but the way he could head Jaskier’s steady breathing, quicker than his own, but still relaxed. The familiar smell of rosin on Jaskier’s hands. Something about the other man’s presence was soothing in a way that Geralt didn’t want to think about. He’d grown too used to time spent with Jaskier trotting along at his side, or sharing a room with him. Of course, some day Jaskier would get sick of him. Or he would see the witcher for what he really was, a monster. And then it would all be over, in the blink of an eye. But, Geralt didn’t like to think about it. It had become hard enough when the goodbyes weren’t permanent, when he and Jaskier parted ways in the winters. 

Perhaps he’d avoided the thought of losing the bard for the most part. Geralt may not have understood why Jaskier tolerated his company, but that didn’t mean he minded the bard. In fact, he cared more for Jaskier than he’d ever like to admit, even to himself. The past few times he’d met Jaskier on the road, seen the other man’s face light up, heard his excited greetings… It had filled him with the kind of warmth that he was so horribly unfamiliar with. 

Just thinking about it made something stir in his chest. Or, perhaps it was a cough. 

No it was definitely a cough.

It caught Geralt by surprise, and he was quick to lift a hand to cover his mouth as he gave a few halfhearted coughs, dislodging what felt like a tickle somewhere deep in his throat. It was nothing abnormal, though Geralt shook his head slightly to get his bearings when he finally dropped his hand from his mouth, only for his gaze to drop to his palm. 

In a moment, Geralt’s world screeched to a shuddering halt. 

_ Destiny was a cruel, fickle bitch. _

And her oh-so-kind reminder of that stared up at him from his palm. 

  
A single,  _ delicate _ petal. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 already I know, I've been loving this AU so I can't get it out of my head
> 
> Anyways, enjoy some more Geralt while I dust off my writing skills.
> 
> (Comments are always appreciated!)

There had been talk, here and there, of a wasting sickness that caused the infected to cough up flower petals. But… Geralt had always thought it was an old wives tale. A warning against falling in love with someone one couldn’t afford to. Whether it was a difference in station, or simply someone that had not been arranged for someone else. 

In his travels, Geralt had heard of this only in passing. Its name seemed to escape him for the most part. But he could remember the warnings well enough. How unrequited love would cause flowers to bloom within someone’s chest, eventually smothering them from within with fragrant blossoms. 

Surely the white petal he had covertly slipped into a vial in his bag wasn’t that. 

It was foolish, Geralt tried to shake the idea from his head, instead focusing on the plodding of Roach’s hooves and Jaskier’s ramblings about his plans for classes when he returned to Oxenfurt for the winter. Surely Geralt was overreacting. There was a perfectly reasonable explanation for the petal that he had coughed up. Besides, he wasn’t even in love with anyone! How could love be unrequited when it didn’t even exist? 

He must have rolled through a plant and inhaled some of its flowers during the wraith fight. That was it, absolutely. Most things in life had rational explanations, he was sure that this was no exception. 

So why didn’t the thought bring him any comfort? If it was a simple coincidence why didn’t the tension wound through his shoulders let up? 

Once more he attempted to turn his mind elsewhere, turning his attention instead to scanning the road ahead, and the woods to his side. Jaskier’s talk fell on half-deaf ears as Geralt forcefully pushed worrying thoughts from his head. Things that struggled for his attention were shoved down and out of his mind to the best of his ability. It wasn’t anything he had to worry about for the time being anyways. Again, he wasn’t in love with anyone, so there was no possible way he could have contracted a sickness that existed only in stories. He had never seen a case anyways, only ever heard rumors. He was making a big deal out of nothing. 

“Are you even paying attention?” There was a light tap against Geralt’s leg as he was jarred out of his thoughts. His gaze flicked down from the horizon to light on Jaskier’s face as the bard quirked an eyebrow at him, obviously waiting for a response. One that, of course, he wasn’t going to get beyond a faint hum as Geralt turned his attention back to trees. 

“I suppose not.” Jaskier huffed, waving a hand as he slung his lute over his back so he could have his hands free. Geralt couldn’t help but watch the other man from the corner of his eye as Jaskier launched back into talk about Oxenfurt. It was dead in the middle of summer, so Geralt couldn’t help but wonder why he seemed to be planning so extensively already. 

“You should winter at Oxenfurt soon. It may do you some good.” The suggestion took Geralt off guard, how casual it was in particular. He’d been by the university more than once for various reasons, updating bestiaries, taking contracts and the like. But he wasn’t exactly more welcome there than anywhere else. They weren’t aggressive, but Geralt knew that most wouldn’t want a witcher in their mix for that long, even if they were moderately tolerant. 

Which was why he preferred spending the lean months in Kaer Morhen, taking the time to re-sharpen his skills, hunting with those left of his school. His kind were thinned enough as it was, to have one less return to the keep for the winter may be a blow to how things ran over the winters. 

His silence, however, wasn’t really an answer. Geralt was simply thinking. But between the sudden offer and other things weighing on him, it was difficult to focus on it for more than a breath at a time. Eventually after the silence had stretched long, he spoke up, shifting in his saddle. 

“I’ll think about it.” It wasn’t a no, but he wasn’t going to promise Jaskier anything. It was more than likely he would return to Kaer Morhen sooner than Jaskier would return to Oxenfurt anyways. The mountain pass had a nasty habit of closing earlier than most. For the time being that wasn’t what was on his mind. And what was supposed to be on his mind was their surroundings. Geralt was usually so sharp about such things, but he was distracted, doing his best to scan the trees when he could. 

Jaskier seemed happy enough with the reply though, settling to instead pluck at his lute and fill the quiet with snippets of song as they continued on. 

Something still nagged at Geralt, as if he was missing something important. It had him raking his mind for anything that could be making him feel such a way. It seemed like his thoughts were running him in circles, always pulling him back to the petal still tucked away in his packs. He simply continued to tell himself it was nothing. Ignoring the question of why he’d placed the petal in a vial if it was nothing. Why didn’t he simply dump it out when he took care of his bath water the night previous? It nagged at him, despite his silent insistence that it was simply an old story for common folk. 

Eventually, after what felt like hours, Geralt managed to bury his own thoughts. It was something that was usually somewhat easy for him. At least when he was supposed to be doing something else, like keeping watch on the road while he and Jaskier travelled. 

Guilt began to tug at him for being so careless, his eyes turning to scour the landscape as he began to strain himself to hear anything. What if he had been so lost in thought that he had missed something? It had happened before a handful of times, but he was usually alone for those times, and suffered the consequences on his own. Of course, nothing had claimed his life thus far. It was enough to keep him in line though, and as soon as his head was somewhat clear, Geralt turned his full attention to the task at hand. 

Thankfully his carelessness hadn’t cost them anything, and travel began to continue as normal. Geralt eventually began to spare Jaskier shreds of his attention, occasionally offering brisk replies to the other man’s endless questions. It was nothing invasive for once, just inquiries about certain monsters Jaskier had seen and heard of during their recent travels. The easy kind of questions that Geralt didn’t have much trouble answering. He even began to relax a bit into the conversation, content with the near-quizzing of his information on local monsters. 

Of course he didn’t relax enough to let his guard down, still straining to hear or sense anything that may have been lurking in the woods. Fortunately he didn’t have to worry about anything. Between the conversation and the calm day, there was nothing for him to be on edge about. Nothing lurked just out of sight. In fact, he caught himself almost enjoying the company. The simple call and response of Jaskier’s curiosities. It was almost nice. 

After a while, however, Geralt began to catch the smell of rain on the wind. Normally that would have been a relief after the humidity had been climbing for the past few days. It would give the weather time to even out. The downside of this was that, they were miles from the next town. Which meant they were far from proper shelter. Geralt could only hope it would pass them by for the moment, indicating for Jaskier to pick up the pace anyways, much to his companion’s annoyance. 

Getting caught in the rain wasn’t the most uncommon occurrence, but Geralt liked to avoid it when he could. Not many people enjoyed being damp and cold, witchers included. So for the time being Geralt just led them towards the closest town he knew of, hoping that they’d make it before rain fell. 

As usual, Geralt’s hopes were swiftly dashed as clouds began to gather overhead, darkening the midday sky. Jaskier’s footsteps picked up slightly, edging closer to Geralt as the angry sky sunk into a deeper gray. It was soon followed by a crack of thunder. Lightning flashed somewhere in the distance, and Geralt couldn’t hold back a quiet curse as the first drop of rain splattered against his armor. It seemed like they would need to make their own shelter for the night. 

He didn’t have much time to search for a good spot, as it seemed as if the first few raindrops began to summon a much larger downpour. Soon there was rain rattling across the road, and Geralt was swiftly dismounting Roach to lead both her and Jaskier into the trees where they could avoid the worst of the storm. 

Jaskier floundered along behind him, voice barely audible over the roar of the rain before they crossed into the border of the forest. 

“Summer storms are a beautiful thing but I think I prefer them from the comfort of indoors.  _ I  _ certainly don’t need watering for any kind of flowers.” His voice lilted with a soft laugh as Geralt looked back to see him shaking water from his hair and ducking under a branch that Roach had pushed aside. Something about the comment stuck under Geralt’s skin, perhaps the mention of flowers. But he kept quiet on it. There was no way Jaskier knew what had been weighing on him. 

It was amazing Jaskier could stay lighthearted even as rain played against the leaves and needles of the trees overhead, trailing behind Geralt as they forged deeper into the woods until Geralt found a huge pine that seemed to protect from the worst of the rain. The ground underneath it was dry, for the most part, and with a bit of fortification it would do just fine until the storm was over. He was quick to stand under it, glad for the respite from the cold rain pouring down even between the trees. The temperature was dropping too, not enough to be freezing, but for Geralt? It was plenty cold when paired with the rivulets of cold water that ran down his skin. 

Given how cool he ran, it wasn’t hard to make Geralt cold. It was something he couldn’t help but despise. He was a witcher, dammit, and yet cold could render him at the very least wildly uncomfortable with seeming ease. For the time being though, he forced himself to conceal faint tremors that came with the sudden plummeting temperature, instead focusing on tying Roach to a branch and peeling his armor off. 

“I’ll collect kindling, we need to dry off.” He spoke up above the rain as he piled his armor against the tree. Before he stepped back out into the rain he took a moment to strip off Roach’s tack and saddlebags so she could be more comfortable without wet gear weighing her down. After that, however, he was ducking out to find some partially dry kindling at the very least. 

It took a while but eventually Geralt trudged back to the old pine with an armful of kindling and firewood that he kept dry enough to be useable. Jaskier had posted up and cleared a space for a fire already, which Geralt was thankful for. Especially since he was soaking wet, hair partially stuck to his face, and clothing clinging to his skin. He was freezing though, despite the fact that the temperature hadn’t dropped much from earlier. 

Jaskier was shuffling through his packs, making noises of discontent as he pulled a soaking notebook from the bottom of it, a litany of curses following it to the forest floor as he tossed it onto the pine needles. 

Geralt didn’t pay him much mind, setting himself to lighting a campfire before he did anything else. The woods were wet enough that he didn’t worry about lighting it under the branches of a tree. The branches were high up enough that he wasn’t worried about them catching as he worked through numb hands to finally strike up a small blaze. 

Within minutes of his return there was a small fire cheerfully crackling away between them, Geralt taking a moment to absorb the warmth of the campfire before the drip of his clothing got to be too much for him. 

“I think my packs are completely soaked through.” Jaskier lamented, dropping another soaked sheaf of papers atop the journal already laying amongst the pine needles. Geralt eyed the mess quietly before he stood. He’d always warned Jaskier about his packing methods and how it was going to bite him in the ass some day. It seemed as if he’d actually been around to see the results of Jaskier not listening to him. 

“You should pack better.” He commented as he stood, moving over to where he’d deposited his saddlebags. The oil-treated leather had protected the contents wonderfully, leaving Geralt with dry clothes and rations. He took a moment to pull a change of clothing from one bag as Jaskier made a noise of discontent from where he sat. 

“Fine, fine, I suppose I deserve it, you prick.” Jaskier grumbled, and Geralt could hear him shifting. The sound of a wet doublet being peeled off followed, pairing with the sound of Geralt tossing a set of fresh clothing over a tree branch, safe off the ground. 

He made the mistake of glancing over at Jaskier though, seeing the other man practically pouting from where he sat next to the fire. He’d drawn his knees up to his chest, sitting amongst his soaked through belongings. Something about it made something in Geralt’s chest twinge. Jaskier did look genuinely upset. It had him forcing his eyes away as he pulled his own shirt off, hanging it to dry on another branch before the rest of his clothing followed. 

Dry clothes never felt as good as they did after being soaked through like that, and Geralt admittedly relished in the feeling for a moment as he finished pulling a dry shirt on over his head. He’d taken a moment to towel off, including his hair, so he wouldn’t immediately soak the new clothing. But once he’d gotten changed, he couldn’t help but glance back at Jaskier, who had seemingly resigned himself to his place by the fire. 

He seemed startled when he was hit in the side of the head by a bundle of dry cloth. 

“If you sulk any harder you’ll attract something.” Geralt muttered, moving over to sit next to the fire. Jaskier quickly fumbled with the bundle of clothing, looking over to Geralt while the witcher pointedly ignored his gaze. He’d instead focused on poking at the fire before adding another few sticks to it, strengthening the flames and producing more heat. There was a moment’s pause before Jaskier was getting to his feet and stepping around the tree to change. 

After some shuffling and cursing, Jaskier returned. And Geralt immediately wildly regretted his choice. 

Jaskier wasn’t a small man per se, actually relatively muscular for one that didn’t do a lot of training. But as much as he was lean muscle, Geralt still easily dwarfed him in size. And as Jaskier settled back down next to the fire, that much was incredibly obvious. Geralt’s shirt practically swallowed him whole, hanging loose over his shoulders and dipping low in the front where Jaskier had neglected to lace it all the way. That wasn’t even mentioning how Jaskier had to roll the top and cuffs of the pants he wore, they didn’t fit as badly as the shirt, but they were certainly still far too big. 

“It seems like you have a heart after all.” Jaskier commented, adjusting the way he sat. Geralt offered him a slight shrug, busy feeding the fire before he spared Jaskier a small glance. 

Something about the sight of the other man made a small amount of warmth bloom within his chest. The way Jaskier relaxed next to the fire, leaning back on his hands and shaking his hair out of his eyes again. The firelight played off of exposed skin and damp hair. For a moment Geralt could understand how Jaskier could snare women when he seemingly was… Well…  _ Jaskier _ .

The thought came with a cough, stifled behind a closed mouth, and then his hand as he moved it up to his face. Something felt like it was caught in his throat, and if he could have paled he would have. Geralt felt something hit the back of his teeth along with a surge of nausea that he knew didn’t come from the coughing fit. 

Jaskier thankfully seemed to take no notice as Geralt’s coughing stopped and he silently excused himself to go tend to Roach. 

He allowed himself to round the tree before he spat at the ground, hoping that the cover of the rain would prove to be enough to hide the sound. 

Somehow, the sight of a smattering of tiny white petals splattered against the pine needles below didn’t surprise him. It only brought up another coughing fit when Geralt’s mind flickered back to Jaskier, only to hope that the other man didn’t hear him. But as soon as the other man crossed his mind the coughing resumed. 

This time Geralt was left with another few petals in his hands, tossing them to the ground as soon as he’d straightened from his coughing. 

Shame, guilt, disbelief. They played surprisingly nicely with each other as they threatened to choke Geralt. He attempted to steady his hands on Roach’s side, bracing his back against the wide trunk of the tree he stood behind. His mind reeled as he stared down at the petals, stark against the otherwise gloomy surroundings. There was something wrong. There had to be. Not only was the sickness a  _ tale,  _ No more than a story to scare children. But he wasn’t in love with  _ anyone  _ dammit! 

He was a witcher, a surly one at that. He was close enough to the monsters he fought that humans feared and loathed him. There was no part of him that should have even been capable of such a thing. He’d even told Jaskier as much, he didn’t need anyone, and he didn’t want anyone needing him either. 

So why him? Why was he staring down at glaring evidence that he was in love with someone? Why now? Was it a curse? That seemed to be the only rational explanation. Maybe he had been cursed without his knowledge and it had taken long enough to take hold that he hadn’t noticed? 

Geralt scrambled for anything, any explanation that wasn’t the one that loomed at the back of his mind, much like the stormclouds overhead. 

While he struggled to think, he forced himself to take care of Roach, kicking pine needles over the offending petals in the process. It wouldn’t do to leave Roach soaked and uncomfortable while he was having a crisis that was enough to throttle him. Geralt felt like he was going to be sick, but he forged on, brushing the horse out while he thought. 

Nothing seemed to come to mind beyond a wayward, unnoticed curse. Maybe the disease wasn’t a tale, but spellwork. That could be it. Surely it was something he could solve somehow. He would simply have to wait until the next time he found a witch. They weren’t easy to come by, but he had a habit of running across them. Or any magic user in general. Geralt would just need someone. They could tell him what was wrong, surely. 

While he wasn’t content with the lack of answers he had for the time being, Geralt had at least stopped spitting up petals. So he forced himself to calm down, though that really only resulted in him pushing down a sick feeling that something was wrong, and trying to ignore the unexplained guilt that nagged at him. He was a master of ignoring any emotions that dared rear their heads though, and simply went about his business, outwardly unperturbed. 

Eventually he finished tossing a blanket over Roach before he returned to the fire. 

Jaskier still sat where he’d settled, though his sulk had returned. Geralt barely had time to raise an eyebrow and sit once more before Jaskier was speaking up. 

“My journal is completely drenched.” Jaskier sighed, holding up the offending book as Geralt folded his legs and rested his forearms against his thighs. He didn’t look at Jaskier for the time being, something telling him that was for the better. 

“It will take years to dry, if ever.” His words were stained with a frown, enough so that Geralt, against his better judgement, glanced over at the other man. Sure enough, Jaskier was turning the book over in his hands sadly, water still dripping from between the pages. Geralt knew what the journal was made of, and knew that Jaskier worked with charcoal, generally speaking. 

“What did I say about sulking?” He grumbled, stretching a hand out for the book. It wasn’t a completely lost cause. It seemed like Jaskier simply liked to make it out to be. Geralt was met with a slight scowl, before the soaked journal was placed into his hand. 

“It’s just parchment, it’ll dry.” Geralt continued, opening the journal and fanning the pages out carefully. He didn’t look to Jaskier as he said so, keeping his hands away from damp charcoal as he worked. For a long moment Jaskier stayed uncharacteristically silent, Geralt could feel eyes tracking his movements. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew how important Jaskier’s notes and songs were to him. It wouldn’t do to allow the journal to be destroyed. 

Once he’d separated all of the pages, he set the book up on end in front of the fire, propping the cover open so the open pages faced the brunt of the heat. 

“Leave it for a while and it should be fine.” Geralt waved a hand at the book before settling back down once more. He saw Jaskier perk up out of the corner of his eye, craning his head to look and see if the pages had been marred by the water. 

There was no harm in letting the other man observe, so Geralt fell quiet as he shifted slightly closer to the fire. For once he tried to focus on warming up instead of his thoughts. Things still nagged at him, inconsistencies in the way he’d rationalized his mouthful of flower petals earlier. But he did his best to ignore them, instead training his awareness on the roar of the rain around the group, and the fire that danced in front of him. 

For a while Jaskier was quiet, though eventually he stood, moving to collect his things from the ground to instead hang in the branches of the tree. Geralt paid him no mind as he moved about, stopping here and there to offer Roach a pat on the nose before she settled behind Geralt. 

Midday soon began to stretch into afternoon, Geralt only getting up to collect more firewood. This time donning a cloak over his clothing before he returned with armfulls of only slightly damp wood to feed to the fire. Some of the logs sizzled and spit when they hit the heat, giving up their moisture in violent pops as Geralt poked them deeper into the fire with a stick. 

Eventually, when the sky had begun to grow darker still overhead, Geralt broke out some rations that had escaped the rain, making sure he handed Jaskier plenty as well. Jaskier mustered a quiet thanks before he settled to eat. 

The bard was quiet for longer than Geralt had expected, seemingly just elsewhere mentally. Every now and then Geralt would hear a faint string of notes hummed under Jaskier’s breath, but for the most part the sound of rain and a crackling fire just stretched idly between them. 

For once the quiet was unwelcome.

Geralt was used to being alone with his thoughts, sure. But when he had so much to think about? He wasn’t exactly fond of it. The quiet was charged with too many of his own questions for himself. And without Jaskier there to fill it with song or some of his usual ramblings, Geralt was faced with a need to answer them. 

The one that nagged at him the most was the commonality between the times that Geralt had coughed up the flower petals thus far. Both had been when he was… No, there was no way. It was just a curse or something else strange. Nothing more. 

It couldn’t have anything to do with Jaskier. 

There was no way that the coughing up petals, the tale of unrequited love could ever have anything to do with Jaskier. It wasn’t possible. The stupid bard with his stupid songs and balads, and constant humming or brainstorming. With his stubborn need to stick to a witcher who offered more danger than safety, his foolishly optimistic outlook that he had a habit of inflicting on Geralt. It didn’t matter that he was seemingly the only person who had the audacity to  _ enjoy  _ Geralt’s company. There was no way that the petals had anything to do with him. 

He and Jaskier had played a game of catch-up with each other since they’d met. Always finding one another again somehow. And, admittedly, the last few times Geralt had heard Jaskier call out to him from across a tavern or marketplace he hadn’t minded. In fact… Part of him almost lightened when he saw the bard. It was a reminder Jaskier was safe, doing well for himself usually. Which was, of course, the only reason he was glad to see the bard. After so long he couldn’t help but be at least slightly invested in the idiot bard’s wellbeing. He hadn’t put in so much work for nothing, obviously. 

Whether he travelled alone or with Jaskier, it was no different to him. Lonely treks from city to city were near the same as those same travels made with the bard by his side, there to insist on handling a lot of conversations with inkeeps and tavern owners to make negotiations. Someone there to greet him after long hunts, with a fire lit in the fireplace and a hot meal ready whenever Geralt wanted it. 

He didn’t mind doing those things himself, or just crashing in a dark room at the end of a hunt, alone. And he refused to think more on the matter, even when Jaskier decided to pluck at his lute and drag Geralt out of his thoughts. 

For once he offered no real protest to the music, instead listening to the notes that filled the air to distract himself from thoughts that refused to leave him alone. 

Jaskier didn’t sing that time, and Geralt almost missed it. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by insomnia and Swedish power metal. 
> 
> No betas we die like men

“It’s an arbutus flower.” The herbalist pushed the vial back across the table at Geralt, turning her eyes back to him with the same wary look that most offered him. 

Unfortunately, that didn’t tell him much. Which, given the fact that there was a full flower sitting in the vial he’d given her… was disconcerting. It was the first that he’d coughed up. After what felt like weeks of just increasing amounts of perfect white petals, he’d plucked a full flower from one pile. 

“Are they used for anything?” He asked, frustration edging on his tone. He knew his fair share of wild plants and herbs, given his status as a witcher. But he’d heard little to nothing about arbutus flowers. 

“It’s an evergreen, the plant is used for colds and stomach aches. Nothing notable enough to have it shipped in.” She waved a hand and rose from her seat, seeming disinterested in speaking with the witcher further even as she continued. 

“Given that it isn’t native to here, there’s really no use in that. ‘S not suited to our area so much.” She’d begun to go back to what she had been doing when Geralt had come in, brewing some remedy that Geralt couldn’t place. Whatever it was smelled absolutely foul, especially for one with a heightened sense of smell. But for a long moment Geralt couldn’t force himself to move. Why was it that specific plant? Of all things, why something that wasn’t even native to the area? Was it even something relevant to what was going on? 

Logically, he knew that the type of flower had nothing to do with the sickness. Maybe if it was a curse, it was always arbutus flowers. Maybe it was completely random. He didn’t know enough about what had seemed like a fictional illness to say anything in particular about it. 

Either way, he’d been all but dismissed from the herbalist’s shop, collecting himself and the vial before he made his way out. Where he was going from there was, a good question. Jaskier waited for him back at the inn, but it seemed as if the coughing always started up around Jaskier, annoyingly enough. So was it truly worth it? Geralt thought maybe not. Perhaps it would do him some good to collect himself without Jaskier’s presence there to distract him from his own thoughts. He needed to stock up on some things anyways, perhaps the market was a good choice. This was a large enough town to possibly have what he needed. 

With that much decided, Geralt was eager to strike out, trying not to think too much of the two vials that weighed unbearably heavy in his pocket. 

The past two weeks had been, interesting. Following the rainstorm, he and Jaskier had continued to travel. Where Geralt had quietly hoped that the sickness was just some hex or the like to inconvenience him for a while, it seemed to only worsen. Each time it seemed as if he coughed up more and more petals. It was still only a handful or two at that point. But it was alarming how quickly the numbers seemed to spike. From one, to three or four, to too many to sit down and count reasonably. 

It was all a lot to think about. How he’d had to evade Jaskier every time he was struck by the coughing sensation that was becoming uncomfortably familiar. It wouldn’t do to have the bard catch him while he was doubled over somewhere, spitting out petals onto the forest floor. How would he even explain such a thing? Geralt didn’t even know  _ why  _ he was struck with the sickness. Let alone who it was supposed to be for. He’d thought it through plenty of times. And while he’d slept with plenty of women before, he’d never truly loved any of them. Nor could he place anyone at the moment that he had any affection for. Let alone the kind of love that it seemed would warrant such an extravagant thing. 

The market proved to be as large as Geralt had hoped. People pedaled their wares to whoever would listen, children ran about playing, street cats wove through people, keen on their own business. It was an assault on the senses, especially since it had been a while since Geralt had stayed in such a large town, let alone visited their market. 

He was sure Jaskier would have taken to the market easily, and for a moment wondered if he should have simply brought the other man along so Jaskier could talk to people. It would make sense, after all, the bard was far more skilled with people than Geralt was. It made sense, Geralt was a witcher, feared for no reason other than what he was, Jaskier was… Jaskier. Almost infuriatingly friendly and talkative, even with those he didn’t know in the slightest. Geralt always marveled at that, how Jaskier seemed to want to find good qualities in near everyone. 

Like an unwanted visitor, Geralt felt the all-too-familiar scratching at the back of his throat. 

Silently, he cursed timing, yet again. The sound and smell of the market pressed down on him, but Geralt was swift to pick out an alley. He could only swallow back the coughing for so long it seemed. He’d definitely tried to stifle it entirely before, and it had only resulted in a more violent coughing fit. 

Either way, it took far too long to find a place away enough from other people that he could release the tight grip on his own body. 

In a back alley Geralt found himself doubling over, hand clamped fruitlessly over his mouth as coughs wracked his body. Petals rushed up his throat, expelled into his hand before they began to overflow to the ground. First a few and then countless began to spill over where he had a hand pressed to his face. Geralt could only silently hope that nobody needed to use the alley that he’d sequestered himself in, hiding away from prying eyes. What would a normal person think if they saw a witcher of all people choking on lungfuls of flowers and petals? 

Thankfully the attack lasted only a few moments, before Geralt was bracing a hand against the wall and catching his breath. There was no way to cover the pile of petals on the cobblestones, but hopefully he wouldn’t be around long enough for the petals to be linked to him. Either way he needed a moment to compose himself, wiping his mouth as he stared down at the offending floral arrangement, dotted with fully bloomed flowers. 

He needed to do more research on what was going on. 

For the time being he composed himself once more before slinking out of the alley. While he hadn’t had a chance to purchase what he needed at the market, suddenly it seemed much less appealing. If he could avoid people for the time being, he would prefer it. Then again, he always happened to think like that. Now it just seemed all the more pressing that he avoid other people. After all, it would just be easier that way. People were less likely to ask questions, to see him in case something happened. 

It still felt like all eyes were on him. Which… May not have been far from the truth. Geralt was no moron, he knew what he was, and how he stood out. How everything about his sheer existence screamed exactly what he was to the rest of the world. Unfortunately for him, the town wasn’t large enough to boast any sort of library or bookseller. So he was left to return to the market. At that point it felt like it had been hours out wandering the town. Something about the presence of other people began to weigh on him. 

Sounds began to grate, slowly Geralt began to become more aware of the activity going on around him. Keen senses picked out specific things in the market, but at the same time everything. He was paying for a few pounds of dried meat when the rattle of coins into the merchant’s hand seemed to ring through his ears. Horse hooves on the cobblestones behind him, the shriek of a laughing child. Sound cascaded in on him from every angle. Every time he moved it seemed like something else was intruding in on his senses, trampling any thoughts he may have had with sounds that seemed too loud. Voices swam through his awareness, snippets of conversation jumping out at him against his will. 

It was too much, Geralt was too aware of everything. Maybe it was the desire to go unnoticed for once that had flipped some switch in his head. Whatever it was he was horribly aware of everything around him. It made him want to hold his hands over his ears to maybe stifle some of the sound, so he could hear something other than his own breathing, or the grating of a weight being set on a scale. 

For once, his choice of where to go was instinctual. Something drove him back to the inn, and while he remained apathetic outwardly, Geralt felt like he was on the verge of breaking. Everything was too loud, too bright. Motion caught at the corners of his vision, nearly making him twitch as instinct demanded he track said motion. It was torture, the kind of overload that only hit him every now and then. Usually it was spurred on by latent potion effects that hadn’t had a chance to wear off after a fight. This time around it seemed as if his senses needed no help, instead serving in beginning to grind a headache into his temples from the relentless noise around him. 

Geralt didn’t often fall victim to things like headaches. But it seemed like Life was determined to remind him of exactly his place in the world recently. With the overwhelming sound of, well, everything, and the visuals plaguing his very existence. It was just too much, everything was too much. Geralt couldn’t remember the last time he’d so desperately wanted dark, and  _ quiet.  _ But there he was, winding his way through people and trying to keep his pace measured so he didn’t alarm anyone. It was awful, of course, every step seemed to ring off the ground louder than the last. And by the time he pushed the inn door open, he was practically twitching at every noise, barely keeping himself composed. People turned to look at him but he did his best to ignore them, tried to keep his eyes off of the flickers of motion of people setting down tankards or turning back to their conversations. 

Instead he focused all of his energy on propelling himself up the stairs, focused only on the room he and Jaskier had paid for for the night. It felt so far away still, every squeak of the floorboards racing up Geralt’s spine like claws. 

Eventually he pushed the door to their shared room open, quickly pushing it closed behind himself and trying to collect himself. He could hear Jaskier shift from where he’d taken up a place by the cold hearth, sitting in an armchair that creaked under him as he moved his weight. Geralt wanted to close his eyes, block out all outside stimulus and exist in a dark void for a while. But unfortunately for him, that wasn’t exactly possible. Especially not in the middle of a day in a busy town. He couldn’t even be completely alone, so painfully aware of everything down to Jaskier’s fucking  _ breathing  _ in the worst way. It was something he usually tuned out but for the time being it was too loud in his ears, everything was. 

“Geralt? Are you alright?” Jaskier piped up, cautious. Geralt heard feet hit the floor before floorboards took Jaskier’s weight and he stood. Geralt wanted to flinch away from the noise, bury his head between his knees until the world stopped being so goddamn loud. 

“I’m fine.” He grit out, clenching his teeth as he struggled for composure. It was something that he should have been able to force on himself, but it kept evading him. Somehow it seemed as if Jaskier noticed that as well. Though, Geralt supposed he wasn’t being incredible at hiding how he’d tensed to the point of almost shaking, how said tension bled over into trying to block out visual stimuli by staring at the floor in front of himself. 

“I’ve seen you alright, and this-” Geralt could hear the shift of fabric, Jaskier likely gesturing to, all of him. “- is not alright.” Jaskier’s voice had softened, edged with concern that Geralt wanted to get away from more than anything. Even sounding quiet and concerned, Jaskier’s voice was too loud. Too present. Too damn much. Maybe that showed on his face, because he heard a faint intake of breath before Jaskier’s movements stilled entirely. Geralt resisted the urge to back further away from Jaskier, pressing himself further against the wood of the door he leaned against as he tried to regulate his own breathing. It’d gotten too out of control while he struggled to process everything. 

“Hey…” Jaskier spoke up after a long moment, voice barely a whisper. It likely would have been nearly inaudible to anyone but Geralt. But as it was, it cut through Geralt’s awareness relatively smoothly compared to everything else. Something about it being Jaskier, and being so familiar, it caught his attention somewhat, enough that he dragged his gaze to the bard and almost wished he hadn’t near immediately. 

There was concern scrawled across Jaskier’s features clear as day. Concern that Geralt sure as hell didn’t deserve. Surely the overload was his fault. If he just had a better rein on himself, had maintained proper control. It wouldn’t have happened. It was a stupid lapse. Sure it had been brought on by something, presumably the break to cough up flower petals in a back alley, but it wasn’t an excuse. He was a witcher dammit. Showing any sort of weakness was  _ not  _ an option for him. Let alone in front of someone like Jaskier, who was too human for his own damn good sometimes. That was something that Geralt would never be able to forget. Just how damn human his traveling companion was. Jaskier cared too much, looked for beauty in places where there wasn’t any. Maybe Geralt had been tempered by time, become cynical and tired, but Jaskier was still young. 

“Geralt focus for a minute.” Jaskier’s voice remained unbearably soft. The kind of softness that Geralt couldn’t remember ever being directed at him. It was enough to nearly make his knees buckle as Jaskier moved fully into his field of view, blocking out other visuals and asking for his attention without demanding it. Geralt offered no reply, but his gaze locked onto Jaskier’s, some part of him begging for him to somehow fix the situation that had gotten so horribly out of hand. And somehow that made it much easier for Jaskier to catch his attention. Even as the slam of a door down the hall nearly made Geralt flinch. 

“I just need you to focus on something, okay? Can you do that?” Jaskier’s usual flare when he spoke seemed to have been abandoned in favor of something softer, more sincere. It was starting to ground Geralt in a way that he didn’t want to admit. But Jaskier was looking at him expectantly, and he realized that an answer was expected. He managed a silent nod, and watched as Jaskier broke into a faint, almost sad smile. 

“Beautiful, now I just need you to sit with me alright?” His tone remained achingly soft, Geralt nearly shied away from it, but Jaskier was already moving to sit, folding his legs in front of himself and very obviously waiting for Geralt to sit with him. After a long moment, Geralt forced his body to move, sliding down the door to sit uncomfortably. The whole time his eyes remained on Jaskier, clinging to one constant, one thing that wasn’t moving unpredictably or making unexpected noise. He knew Jaskier’s tells well enough that nothing about the other man could ever startle him. Though the gentle treatment was new.

For a few breaths, Jaskier allowed the silence to stretch out, allowed Geralt to slowly settle himself to the point where he wasn’t uncomfortably aware of any particular place where he made contact with the floor. And once he’d settled, Jaskier spoke once more. 

“Do you want me to be quiet or would it help if I talked to you?” The question surprised Geralt, usually Jaskier needed no permission to ramble endlessly. And usually Geralt either half-listened or paid attention to other things. So having him ask? It was… Odd, new, something along those lines. But it was something Geralt had to actually consider. If there was anything he was used to, it was the way Jaskier rambled around tales or song ideas or anything of the sort, using Geralt as a sounding board or simply someone to talk at when he needed to work something out. 

“You can talk if you want.” Geralt finally managed to press out. His choice was enough of a surprise to him, but it seemed as if Jaskier was more startled. He blinked for a moment before Geralt could see him searching for something to talk about. Like he was expecting Geralt to tell him to keep quiet. 

After another long moment, however, Jaskier launched into talking about a new song he was in the midst of writing. He still kept his voice low, resting his hands on his legs and trying to keep as still as possible. 

The quiet talking gave Geralt something to hang on to. More than ever he found himself holding on to every word Jaskier said, not absorbing much of it, but taking it in nonetheless. He even allowed his eyes to fall closed, head tilting back against the door while he listened to Jaskier. Songs turned into muses, muses turned into lovers, and so on and so forth. Geralt didn’t know how long he let Jaskier talk, paying attention to the man in front of him like his life depended on it. Until eventually the world didn’t seem so damn loud, until his heart rate began to slow to it’s normal slow pace. Tension seemed to begin to drain from his shoulders, then his whole body. Eventually Geralt had nearly entirely relaxed. And a few moments after that much, he paused when he realized Jaskier had gone quiet. 

For a moment the silence stretched out, before Geralt opened his eyes to look back to Jaskier, wondering why the other man had stopped. He nearly jumped when he immediately met the other man’s eyes, quirking a brow in a silent question as he drew himself up and away from the door. He’d been leaning back against it the entire time, hands firmly rooted on his knees until he’d begun to relax. 

“Feeling any better?” Jaskier asked, looking Geralt over for a moment. Admittedly, Geralt wondered how Jaskier had read that so easily. But it was also a question of jow Jaskier had known how to calm him down. When sound and sight had gotten so oppressive, how had he been able to focus on the sound of Jaskier’s voice enough that it calmed him down? Familiarity perhaps? Either way, Jaskier had read him better than Geralt wanted to admit, and was obviously waiting for a reply to his question. The witcher offered a slow nod and a faint hum, not feeling incredibly up to words after that whole ordeal. But his reply seemed to please Jaskier. 

  
And gods be damned did he light up like the fucking sun. 

A far more genuine smile crossed Jaskier’s face, but there was something in it that Geralt had yet to see from Jaskier, from… anyone really. It was a softness at the corners of his eyes, something that terrified Geralt in a way that he didn’t understand. 

“I’m going to go fetch us some food.” Jaskier announced, standing and brushing himself off. Geralt was swift to follow, jaw locking once more as panic raced up his spine, a familiar scraping dragging up his throat. 

“Do you fancy anything in particular, or are you leaving me to my culinary devices?” Jaskier asked over his shoulder as Geralt moved to step out of his way. Geralt forced a shake of his head, before Jaskier was stepping out of the room, leaving Geralt to his own devices. 

It was then that the coughing started, violent in a way that Geralt was growing too used to. He managed to move to a trash bin before the flowers choked him. And while he tried to keep quiet, the hacking was none to subtle as the pure white blooms spilled from his throat. The force with which they were expelled brought tears to Geralt’s eyes. Suddenly, more than ever, he was glad that he almost never fell ill with anything that resulted in him throwing up. The sensation of coughing up petals was awful, in so many ways. For the time being he just hoped to every god listening that he wouldn’t be discovered. 

Eventually the choking faded, and Geralt braced his forearms on the edge of the bin he’d deposited the flower petals into. He was shaking, full body shaking, from everything that had just happened, a tremor and sick feeling running through him before the coughing started again. One last small burst wracked through him before he finally sat back on his knees, catching his breath and scrambling for any logical conclusion to why the sickness had struck him specifically then. 

And for once, he came up with one, Jaskier’s smile from mere moments ago nearly bringing on another coughing fit before Geralt directed his mind elsewhere in a frantic denial. 

  
There was no way, absolutely not. It couldn’t be fucking  _ Jaskier  _ of all people. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no update I am, so so sorry. Life just kind of bitch slapped me and I got hella sidetracked. But I return with more useless gays, this time with less actual flower vomit (for now) Really sorry for how short this chapter was, I just needed to get it finished for the time being or it was going to sit in my drafts forever
> 
> Also little spoon Geralt. And yes, I will in fact die on this hill

“Have you put more thought into where you’re going to stay this winter?” 

Geralt startled slightly when Jaskier spoke up. He’d been busy cleaning his gear after a long hunt, carefully oiling a leather chestplate and listening to the fire crackling in the hearth. In truth, he hadn’t been thinking about whether he’d be wintering in Kaer Morhen or with Jaskier in Oxenfurt. His mind had been considerably elsewhere. Mostly on the fact that he was still in danger of coughing up flowers at any given moment of the day. Which seemed like some kind of horrible satire, but unfortunately enough had simply become his reality. 

So for the time being he just shook his head, only glancing up at Jaskier for a long moment. The bard was sitting on the floor close to the fire. Likely hiding away slightly from the chill of the beginning of autumn. He’d abandoned his lute for the night, instead working on some song, as he did from time to time. 

It wasn’t hard to miss the way Jaskier seemed to falter ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth pulling down for a moment before he turned back to what he was doing. 

“Well, do let me know ahead of time. I can only do so much for arrangements for you past mid-autumn.” He cleared his throat as he spoke, already hunkering back down over his notebook. Geralt took a moment to watch the bard. Jaskier was mostly facing away from him, and he could only catch a hint of the other man’s profile. But he was relaxed, sitting with his legs folded, and his notebook laying open on his knee. 

He still marvelled at the fact that Jaskier could be so completely relaxed around him. So many others wouldn’t even turn their back on a witcher, they watched Geralt’s every move as if he was suddenly going to pounce on them. And yet there was Jaskier. 

Jaskier, who trusted Geralt enough to relax around him. Who didn’t flinch when Geralt startled, who worried himself half to death when Geralt stumbled back from a hunt wounded. He offered companionship and wordless support without expecting anything in return beyond Geralt’s patience. It was a marvel that he remained at Geralt’s side. For what? For the publicity of being known as the witcher’s bard? For the song material? It felt like he’d never know. And in part he didn’t really want to ask, he wasn’t sure he’d like the answer, because Jaskier had to have some kind of motivation. 

“What would I be doing around Oxenfurt anyways?” He could go on hunts in the surrounding area, sure. But there was a reason he didn’t hunt much in the lean months. It was already normal for Geralt to drop weight during his stays at Kaer Morhen. And that was with an entire group of witchers hunting for food on a regular basis. Besides, Jaskier asking if he wanted to winter at Oxenfurt seemed to insinuate that he actually wanted Geralt to stay, well, at Oxenfurt.

Jaskier seemed to hesitate for a moment before he turned slightly, closing his journal. There was a moment of quiet before he spoke up, resting his elbows on his knees as he did so. 

“It would be a good chance for you to rest.” Jaskier shrugged, glancing between Geralt and the journal he still held. Though the witcher paused upon hearing that, quirking an eyebrow. He had plenty of off time as it was. It wasn’t like he was in the woods tangling with beasts every day. There was plenty of time he spent on the road, or cleaning gear or catching his breath after a long hunt. 

“I rest enough.” Geralt grumbled, shifting and going back to cleaning his armor. There was no reason for him to spend the winter getting soft, letting his training going to waste. It would be better for him to go sequester himself in the mountains with those that understood him. Of course, Geralt wasn’t very comfortable around anyone for the most part. But other witchers were somewhat of an exception. He could at least trust them more than most. 

“Enough? Geralt I cannot for the life of me remember the last time you took any time to properly rest.” Jaskier seemed incredulous as he looked back up to Geralt. He reacted like Geralt had suddenly grown a second head. But he had no idea what Jaskier was on about. What else was he supposed to classify downtime as? 

“We’re both resting right now.” He replied with a huff, already dropping his eyes once more. There was no use arguing it, as he said, he got plenty of rest. Perhaps Jaskier didn’t see it as such, but Jaskier was also, well, Jaskier. They both had very different views on life. Not only that but Geralt couldn’t help but wonder why Jaskier cared so much about if he was resting or not. He wasn’t dead yet after all, nor had Jaskier ever gotten injured on the road with him. It was fine, he was fine. 

“This isn’t resting, you’re working, and so am I.” Jaskier scoffed. Geralt could hear the other man getting to his feet across the room, coupled with the sound of Jaskier pulling his doublet around himself once more. 

He didn’t respond, however, if Jaskier wanted to go off about how Geralt was wrong, that was up to him. Geralt was, for one, busy, and qualified his time as resting. He didn’t see why it wasn’t. Both he and Jaskier were relaxed, spending their time doing idle work. It was as relaxed as his life got. Surely that meant he was resting. 

“You really have got to take better care of yourself Geralt.” Jaskier spoke once more as Geralt felt the weight of the bard on the bed next to him. The comment didn’t earn much from Geralt, just a glance in the other man’s direction before Geralt was looking back to his work. 

He took care of himself just fine. Hell, he was doing better than some witchers. Despite everything he was still active, still at the top of his game with hunting and had yet to lose a fight. Of course, witchers only ever had to lose one fight. But it was possible for one to survive such an encounter. And Geralt had yet to encounter anything that could truly best him. Sure he’d had times where he had collapsed immediately after a fight and woken hours later after a few of his wounds healed, to drag himself back to some backwater town and pass out in whatever bed he’d rented at an inn. But that aside, he was still walking, was still able to react to whatever was thrown at him. That was good enough for his standards. 

Feeling a hand fall on his shoulder grabbed Geralt’s attention more than before. His gaze snapped up again, eyes dragging over Jaskier to land on the bard’s face. Jaskier did look legitimately concerned, brows pulled down into a faint scowl that reflected across the rest of his face. His hand was warm against Geralt’s shoulder, giving a slight squeeze when they met eyes. 

“Just one winter?” His tone was softer than it had been before, and eyes searched Geralt’s face almost worriedly. 

“If you hate it, I won’t ever ask you again.” He added after Geralt didn’t waver even slightly under his gaze. 

Geralt was torn. On one hand he knew Kaer Morhen well, knew the social rituals there, knew what to expect. Would a college like that even welcome the likes of him into their midst for so long? He seriously doubted it. But to Jaskier’s credit, he was somewhat convincing. If only because Geralt knew that Jaskier would likely continue asking if he’d changed his mind for at least two weeks should he actually say no. 

He was sure that should he turn down Jaskier’s offer the bard would end up looking like a kicked puppy for the rest of the night, and part of him didn’t want to be the cause of such a thing. Geralt had certainly turned down Jaskier on many small things, but something told him that the offer of a winter at Oxenfurt was different. For some reason completely beyond him, Jaskier actually wanted Geralt there. Maybe it was to pick his brain for more stories, maybe it was for any other number of reasons. Whatever it was felt important. 

“One winter.” Geralt finally acquiesced. Immediately Jaskier seemed to perk up, brows lifting, and a smile beginning at the corners of his eyes. Before he could open his mouth again though, Geralt fixed him with a stern look. 

“One, that’s all I’m promising.” He locked eyes with Jaskier, making sure his point got across. It was likely that he would hate it. Even being cooped up with the other wolves could nearly drive him insane with cabin fever. To be confined within the walls of a college with countless others, and Jaskier constantly at his side? Not to mention the fact that he still hadn’t found a way to deal with his… predicament. 

But the reminder didn’t dull Jaskier in the slightest, he was still aglow with an odd happiness that Geralt could practically smell on him. A wide smile had spread across his face, his shoulders pulling up slightly straighter. It was hard not to relax into the warmth of Jaskier’s smile, and Geralt ended up dragging his gaze back down to what he was doing. If he simply didn’t acknowledge it he didn’t have to think about it, and be distracted by everything Jaskier did. Even as the hand on his shoulder squeezed once more. 

“You won’t regret it, I promise.” Jaskier practically grinned, before he was bounding up off the edge of the bed and going to dig through his packs haphazardly, drawing Geralt’s attention once more. 

“Now, I just need to send word that you’re to be expected-” He was rifling down into his packs, likely searching for his stationary. “- after all, I want to be sure you’re as comfortable as possible-” Geralt wasn’t paying incredible attention to Jaskier’s words as he began to ramble on, talking about how he needed to send a letter immediately, and make sure everything was taken care of beforehand so they wouldn’t have to deal with any kind of bullshit when the time came to settle for the winter. Geralt simply observed, the buzz of energy hat Jaskier got when he was suddenly very excited about something wasn’t new to him. But he didn’t think he’d ever tire of it. 

There was always something, something Jaskier could find to be excited about. Something he could focus on that would make him crackle with energy and a sudden passion that Geralt could never understand. And for some reason, for the time being that was… Reserved for him. It was odd to think about, that the peculiar excitement he’d observed in Jaskier many times before had come from the idea that he’d be wintering at Oxenfurt instead of in the mountains, far far away from Jaskier. He couldn’t help but wonder why it was so significant to Jaskier, but before he could think on it much, Jaskier had turned to him once more and he had to tune back in to whatever the bard had been going on about. 

“- now, do you have any preferences for rooming situation?” He asked. Somewhere during his ramble he’d produced a pad of parchment and other writing utensils for actual letter writing. All of which he’d deposited on the table in the room. Geralt could only shake his head at the question, he didn’t particularly care. He’d likely be uncomfortable in most places. That was simply life. So he just offered Jaskier a small shake of his head, earning a nod in response as Jaskier began to pen out a letter to… Someone. Geralt didn’t see any reason to ask who. Jaskier would make sure the right people were informed. He just hoped that they would be fine with the arrangement that Jaskier had in mind. After all, a witcher on the premises could cause some kind of a stir at the very least.

Jaskier had a few more questions for him, all incredibly mundane. Geralt managed to finish with his work on his armor as Jaskier worked through a letter that seemed entirely too long for something so unimportant. He wasn’t going to comment on it though, he was sure that whoever Jaskier was writing to had dealt with him enough to know, well, how he was. 

Eventually Jaskier finished, and was up and out of his seat with the intent to go find a post office. There was no way the witcher was going to stop him, he still practically vibrated with energy, eagerly sealing the letter he’d written as Geralt began to check a shirt over for any mending that may need to be done.

“I’ll be back!” Jaskier finally piped up, already half out the door as he looked back at Geralt with another blinding smile. He could only nod in return, watching the door shut behind Jaskier, and listening to his footsteps vanish down the hallway as he headed off to go send his letter.

Geralt settled himself in his work as his bard handled that much. It was a good way to distract himself from what he’d agreed to. Any kind of ‘rest’ it was assumed he’d be getting at Oxenfurt seemed likely to drive him mad from lack of any kind of mental stimulation. He was used to spending time tracking and hunting beasts and monsters. The life of a civilian was never meant for him, it never would be. Taking part in that much was just to indulge Jaskier in all honesty. Witchers certainly weren’t meant for high society, and truth be told it was hard to believe they were meant for any kind of society. 

Somehow though, time and time again, Jaskier seemed to contradict him on that. 

More that he just, decided not to think on for the time being. Instead Geralt kept himself busy until Jaskier returned. 

He drifted back in still holding a relaxed, warm smile, cheeks bright and rosy after a stint in the crisp autumn air. Wind had been playing at the window for hours so it was no surprise it’d gotten its teeth into Jaskier while he was out. But it hadn’t seemed to damper the bard’s mood in the slightest. In fact Jaskier was chipper as ever, offering Geralt a hello before he was returning to his place by the fire and warming his hands for a moment. 

They passed the rest of their evening in relative quiet, aside from the odd string of humming from Jaskier at least. Geralt was more than fine with it, it allowed him to clear his mind for the most part. It was something he’d been making more of a point to do since he’d started to deal with the flowers he was coughing up on a daily basis. If he simply didn’t allow himself to think, it usually cut down on how often he had to find excuses to go find a discreet place to essentially throw up. 

Forcing himself not to think did happen to make him jumpy though, and when Jaskier brought up the idea of turning in for the night, Geralt nearly jumped out of his skin. 

“Don’t forget I’m here Geralt.” Jaskier teased, pulling his doublet from his shoulders as he fished in his packs for bedclothes. Geralt could only shoot him a halfhearted glare before moving to put his mending away and retrieve a change of clothing for himself. Jaskier didn’t dignify him with a response more than a light snort as they both set to changing for the evening and putting out lights. It was simple enough, nothing that they hadn’t done before. Geralt had gotten far too used to routine with his companion. It was odd when anything changed. But somehow getting ready to share a bed with Jaskier for the night was routine, it was what he was used to, comfortable with even. 

He let Jaskier settle first, given that he generally didn’t like being boxed in. The bard was quick to hop into bed once Geralt had cleared his things off of it, scooting over towards the wall and settling himself in. And the witcher was only a moment behind, pulling the blankets up over his waist as he laid down on his side of the bed. As per usual, Jaskier had turned his back to him, likely looking out the window set into the wall next to the bed, watching the stars before he drifted off. Geralt just got comfortable on his back, glancing over at Jaskier every now and then. 

There was still light in the room, a faint glow from the dying fire licked up the folds of thick wool blankets, catching on the high points of Jaskier’s hair. It was a stark contrast to the cool starlight that streamed in from the window, casting strands of silver across Jaskier’s front. It was all something so small, but it caught Geralt’s attention so completely he had to actually consciously pull his mind and eyes away. 

Near-silence fell other than the crackle of the fire, Geralt eventually rolled over onto his side to keep his eyes off of Jaskier. And somehow sleep crept in, he began to drift, allowing it to take him. 

However, he hadn’t entirely drifted off when Jaskier shifted. Slightly at first, before he’d rolled over entirely. Geralt had registered the movement immediately, but remained still as he hear Jaskier shifting behind him. He wasn’t expecting much. Sometimes Jaskier tossed and turned, but from the cadence of his breathing it still sounded like he was at least mostly awake. And his alertness was further proved as the witcher felt the faint bump of Jaskier’s forehead between his shoulders. It was odd, to say the least, but it didn’t make him move. In all honesty he was, well, curious as to what the hell Jaskier was doing. 

“Are you still awake, Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice was barely audible even then, tentatively reaching through the night air. Geralt debated lying, acting like he was asleep, but he wasn’t going to do that to Jaskier. So instead he offered a small grunt of acknowledgement, cracking one eye open to glance back over his shoulder at Jaskier’s curled up form. 

“Ah- uhm, sorry about that-” Jaskier’s tone soured slightly, uncomfortable. In a moment, Geralt felt him move again, and realized that Jaskier was going to pull away. It was likely that he’d assumed it was something that Geralt would be uncomfortable with. An innocuous point of contact or something of the like. Of course, if it had been anyone else, Geralt really would have minded. But it was Jaskier for fuck’s sake. 

“It’s fine.” He offered before Jaskier could pull away. He spoke half-muffled by his pillow. Jaskier seemed to freeze up slightly at that. Which was, unsurprising. Geralt usually wasn’t one that tended to be incredibly receptive to physical touch, and honestly he surprised himself with how okay he was with it when it was Jaskier. 

Too much to think about for the moment though, as after a moment, there was more adjusting behind him. 

“Is it alright if I-” Geralt waited for Jaskier to finish his statement, only realizing Jaskier was likely offering some visual after a couple breaths. 

He turned slightly to see what Jaskier was doing, only to see the bards arm half-hovering over his ribcage. 

In a moment it felt like Geralt’s heart launched up into his throat. Of course, it had no right to be doing any sort of thing, but it wasn’t like the witcher’s mental faculties had been entirely together in recent weeks. Either way he was suddenly throttled by, something. Something that crushed his throat closed like a vice as he stared at Jaskier’s arm. It was entirely an overreaction, but it wasn’t discomfort, or any real type of fear. It was new, and more than he wanted to explore within the next decade in all honesty. 

But Jaskier was waiting for a response, and Geralt finally mustered a tight nod. 

The arm settled across him after another beat. A warm weight reminding him that Jaskier was right there as his companion settled in. 

It was entirely foreign if he was being honest with himself. More than ever he was acutely aware of Jaskier’s form behind him, how the bards breaths eased into comfort in the next few moments. He knew he should have been able to tear his mind away from something so small, but it was incredibly hard to. Especially when Jaskier shifted again, turning his head so that instead of his forehead, the side of his face was pressed to Geralt’s back, cheek squishing slightly against the witcher. 

“It’s chilly ‘s all.” He mused quietly. It made sense to Geralt. After all why else would anyone want to be so close to him? Granted he wasn’t exactly an amazing source of body heat. In fact he was somewhat the opposite, with how slow his heartbeat and metabolism were, half the time Geralt knew he was solidly air temperature. But maybe for the time being he was giving off enough warmth to make enough of a difference to Jaskier. 

That had to be it. 

And for once, miraculously, Geralt managed to fight down the familiar scratching at the back of his throat. Perhaps the good grace of some god watching out for him, or maybe the sleep that was already dragging at his bones. Whatever it was he was insanely grateful that he didn’t have to vault out of bed when Jaskier had practically curled up against him. For warmth. Of course.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can someone say two updates after four months of silence? Because I have never had a consistent update schedule ever and I am so sorry
> 
> Anyways have whatever the hell this is, and more of Geralt being the most oblivious person to ever exist because he's...... dumb idk

The autumn air rolled in like fog at the cusp of the seasons. Perhaps Geralt noticed it more than others, picking up on the smell of turning leaves and petrichor when he and Jaskier were travelling. Not to mention the subtle burn of cold in his lungs once the sun went down. More often than not he was the first to start fires, as Jaskier picked up a cloak early in the season, and didn’t get cold so easily. He never offered a peep of protest when Geralt set to work making a fire as soon as they settled for an evening. 

Though the days had begun to shorten, and the weather had turned, Jaskier remained sunny as ever. When the leaves started to change he was the first to breathe in the reds and yellows of a countryside ablaze in color. He coaxed Geralt into pausing on the tops of hills so he could stop and ‘take in the inspiration’ or something else of the sort. Geralt never understood quite what Jaskier was on about, but he’d be damned if he denied his bard a moment to just appreciate the sights. Especially not when he could watch Jaskier’s enamored expression as he took in valleys of bright trees, or the sight of red leaves scattered over a remarkably still lake. 

Jaskier had a particular look when he was appreciating a moment of life. It wasn’t hard to pick up on after spending a little time with him. It was this kind of, odd mix of awe, bemusement, and something else that Geralt could never put his finger on. Whatever it was, it had begun to get to him in recent days. Of course there had been many times when Jaskier had wanted to stop and marvel at scenery, but it always seemed to get more prevalent during the fall. And more often than not, recently, it had Geralt stepping into the woods on the other side of the road with some vague excuse. Generally to deal with the near fully-formed flowers that came pouring out of his throat at any chance. 

Honestly? His chest had started to hurt. 

It was getting worse, he knew. But what else was he to do about it? He’d fallen ill with a seemingly fictional sickness, and the idea of who it could be for made him want to retreat to some far-off corner of the world where he would never interact with another living creature ever again. 

So he remained, living with the ever-present ache of something taking root inside of him. 

“Would you look at that Geralt?” Jaskier’s comment snapped Geralt out of his thoughts as the bard made a sweeping gesture out over the valley they overlooked. He offered a small noise of affirmation as Jaskier pulled his cloak tighter around himself. There was a town settled in the crook of the valley, tucked between the blush of autumn colors and the bend of a winding river. Jaskier was as eager to observe as usual, taking in the whole scene as the wind whipped around them both. It dragged cold fingers across Geralt’s exposed skin, a brief reminder that he needed to unpack his warmer clothes soon. But before he could think on it much, a faint sound caught his attention. 

Somewhere over the hills the bay of hunting hounds tugged at his senses. Geralt couldn’t help but scowl, twisting in his saddle to try to pinpoint where the sound was coming from. Of course, it was only common sense that most common folk were out hunting in the fall. It was high time for them to be stocking up for the winters, and many large prey animals could last a family a whole winter if they were careful. But admittedly the sound of the dogs had Geralt slightly worried for no apparent reason. Something about it rubbed him the wrong way, especially when Roach shifted under him, ears flicking back and forth nervously. 

Given how much she had been through with a witcher on her back, Roach didn’t spook easily, especially not to simple dogs. Something was wrong and it had Geralt turning back to Jaskier. It was unusual for something to itch at the back of his mind so suddenly. For a moment he forced himself to rationalize the situation, people were hunting, it was normal. The howls and barks didn’t seem to be drawing that much closer in all honesty. But something still prickled at the back of his scalp, some kind of unease that came from decades of dealing with things no common man would dare to get anywhere near. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt interrupted Jaskier’s next statement almost gently. His tone was as gruff as usual but quiet, some instinct was pushing at the witcher. They needed to get out of there, far faster than Jaskier’s legs could carry him. Geralt’s hand was already extended to Jaskier, offering him a hand up into the saddle with him. It was something Geralt had done rarely if ever, and certainly not since he’d fallen ill. He didn’t want to think about that sort of close contact. Jaskier’s safety outweighed his own comfort. Especially as he heard more of the barks and howls drawing closer. 

“What? Is something wrong?” Jaskier turned to look over his shoulder at Geralt, looking between the witcher and the offered hand. He was quick to actually turn and take it though. For just a moment Geralt could be glad that Jaskier seemed to trust his intuition at least. He was quick to begin helping Jaskier up. The bard managed easily enough with Geralt pulling him up, a hand fell on Geralt’s shoulder and Jaskier gave a huff as he settled in the saddle behind Geralt. 

“Not sure-: Geralt didn’t offer much more as he returned his hands to Roach’s reins. Something about the sounds of dogs trampling ever-closer was seriously making him nervous, and as Jaskier got settled properly he was already guiding Roach back onto the road. The hounds were drawing even nearer, and it was with a sinking feeling that Geralt realized they were too large to be dogs, maybe even too large for wolves. 

“- wargs, it’s wargs.” His tone darkened as the first beast came tumbling out of the woods, jaws already snapping as its companions came streaming out after it. Normally they wouldn’t have been an incredible issue. But there was an entire pack boiling out of the woods, and between Roach and Jaskier, there was too much risk at hand for Geralt to just handle the situation. Which he wished desperately that he could do as he felt Jaskier suddenly wrap arms around him and cling tight. 

He had no time to think though, the wargs were making a scrabbling beeline for Roach, and Geralt would be damned if either the horse or his bard got injured because he didn’t realize it was wargs sooner. 

Roach needed no help to take off at nearly a dead gallop. All she needed was a snap of the reins and she was off like an arrow. The wargs remained hot on her heels as Geralt bent low over her neck. Jaskier continued to clutch on to him, fingers finding purchase against the seams of Geralt’s leather armor as Jaskier pressed full-bodied against Geralt’s back. To be fair he had plenty of reason to, Roach’s pace wasn’t exactly easygoing for anyone not holding to her reins or fully seated in saddle and stirrups. So it made sense that Jaskier would need to hold to him for stability. 

The road wound through the woods in front of them, Roach stretching out into a near breathtaking speed, still with the beasts biting at her heels. Eventually one party would get tired, Geralt could only hope it would be the pack as he cursed himself for not noticing something so obvious sooner. 

Roach’s top speed still seemed to rattle his teeth in his skull, even as he urged her to push past what she was normally comfortable with. After all he could practically feel the temperature change from the breath of the wargs snapping at the three of them. If they could get to a town it would likely deter the pack long enough that Geralt could get Roach and Jaskier settled, so he could actually properly deal with them. At least without risking either of the other two. 

The full-tilt ride seemed to stretch on forever, Geralt was sure that Jaskier’s fingers would be aching by the time he let go, but Jaskier hadn’t offered even a peep of protest. However he did shift periodically, occasionally craning his neck to look back at the creatures pursuing them before he would settle back in. Perhaps the press of his cheek against the back of Geralt’s shoulder wasn’t entirely needed, but maybe it was a comfort thing? Geralt had no idea, nor did he have any intent to actually think on it for the time being, especially when he was focused on guiding his horse around road hazards that sprung up at them sometimes without warning. Having her trip at a full sprint would be bad enough when they weren’t trying to outrun a pack of hungry canines. 

Roach remained ever-steady, not breaking stride once. And eventually it began to pay off, she began to pull ahead, churning up dust in the faces of the wargs as the witcher urged her on more and more. Once they got settled for the night there were many many treats in her future, Geralt just wanted to make sure that they actually got there. Especially with Jaskier hanging on to him for dear life. 

After what felt like hours a town began to shamble into view, and the wargs that had been getting more and more distant finally decided once and for all that such a difficult meal wasn’t worth it. 

Geralt only let up slightly, allowing Roach to run until they hit the outskirts of town, at which point he quickly began to pull her in, there were too many people that Geralt didn’t want to risk hurting. Even as he did so, it didn’t seem like Jaskier’s grip was letting up. For the time being he wasn’t going to question it. Jaskier was likely shaken from the encounter. It may actually take him a moment or two to properly shrug off the whole affair. They were fine after all. Nobody had gotten hurt, and Roach wasn’t scratched. Though she was definitely tired, breathing hard and nearly foaming with sweat after a hard run. Geralt was already running a hand over her neck as he slowed her to a trot, and then finally to a full stop so both he and Jaskier could dismount. 

“You’re safe you know.” He spoke up after a moment, looking down at Jaskier’s arms still locked tightly around his waist where Jaskier had held tightly to him. And after a beat, he watched said grip finally relax, Jaskier’s fingers uncurling stiffly before the bard was pulling away and clearing his throat. 

“Well… Not exactly ballad worthy, but that was certainly… new.” Jaskier finally managed. A hand slid up Geralt’s back as Jaskier found purchase to steady himself, already moving to dismount Roach before Geralt could even say anything. With how the horse was faintly trembling, it wasn’t hard to tell that she needed a break. It wouldn’t take Geralt long to cool her down and groom her before he returned for the wargs. 

He waited until Jaskier had his boots firmly on the ground before he was sliding down from the saddle as well, taking the horse’s reins in hand and looking Jaskier over. Somehow the bard looked both pale and flushed all at once. But he was alive, and honestly that was all that mattered. 

It took longer than expected for them to get properly settled. Apparently with some sort of festival happening the next evening, the local inn was booked out. Despite Jaskier’s attempts to charisma his way into something. The witcher had simply been ready to make camp somewhere on the outskirts of town, but Jaskier insisted otherwise. Instead he offered the idea of finding a barn or something to sleep in for the night, and after a good deal of convincing, Geralt agreed to let Jaskier try to convince someone. To allow a witcher to spend the night in their barn? It seemed obvious that Jaskier would be turned away at every door he went knocking at. 

So it was much to his surprise when Jaskier proudly announced to him that they had a place to stay and board Roach for the night. Only for him to follow through by leading both of them around a large house to an even larger barn in a secluded field. There was an empty stall that was offered up for Roach, and Geralt was glad for the roof over her head as well as he settled to groom her and probably turn in. 

Such was his plan, and he gladly worked on brushing through the horse’s coat as Jaskier got their ‘camp’ set up for the night. The rustling in the hayloft and the sound of a couple other horses bedding down for the night was soothing background noise. To be fair it was welcome after the adrenaline rush earlier. Geralt had dealt with things far worse than just wargs but the fact that Jaskier had also been in danger had sent his heart into his throat. And for a while it seemed like it wasn’t going to come down. 

He could only imagine what would happen if some kind of harm came to Jaskier. Especially if it was his own fault. Some oversight or lack of attention on his part. Geralt could never forgive himself. Even the idea made him feel sick, to even cause harm to such a positive force simply by association would be too much. He hadn’t thought about the fact that Jaskier could easily be harmed if he stayed close, but after such a close call, the thought was boring into his brain. 

What would happen if Jaskier got hurt and it was his fault? What would happen if he died? Geralt didn’t want to think about it. But his thoughts seemed in a mood to blatantly disobey him. Instead thrusting scenarios into Geralt’s thoughts until the witcher felt like he was going to be sick. Or rather, like he needed to step out away from Jaskier to take care of the floral taste rising in the back of his throat like bile. 

The door of the barn still stood open to welcome in the cool night air until he and Jaskier went to sleep, and Geralt took full advantage of that. He was quick to slip out and around the barn. He made it about halfway around before the blooms forcing their way up his throat had him doubling over. 

In the beginning the sensation had been uncomfortable, foreign. But as he struggled to even stay on his feet, choking around full flowers, it just hurt. 

They scraped up his throat like claws, his whole torso constricting in an attempt to expel what felt like unnatural intrusions as Geralt braced a hand against the side of the barn. It was inescapable, the pressure, the suffocating sweet smell of delicate white flowers. The sharp twisting ache that forced itself deeper into the center of his chest. It was all just so much. 

Ragged gasps staggered through the night air between bouts of Geralt’s near-retching. His back even started to ache from the strain of his torso muscles constricting violently on themselves. 

Once it seemed to be over Geralt struggled to catch his breath once more. Gasps had turned into deep, heaving breaths, the witcher still doubled over. Hair hung in strings across his vision, slightly damp with what was likely sweat. It had been decades since he’d gotten properly sick, sick enough to throw up at least, and to be honest, Geralt was beginning to miss a time when he didn’t have to deal with something so horrible and demoralizing. It all just felt very gross and vulnerable. Even with his mutations it was difficult to recover from, after a few long minutes he was still staring down at the ground, only then beginning to see the dark splotches across some of the petals in the moonlight. 

Upon closer inspection it was hard to miss the stark red of flecks of blood. They were sparse, just here and there, but it was enough to make Geralt worry. He knew the sickness had been getting worse. But was it going to begin to endanger his life? Only time would tell, he supposed. For the time being it was quite possible that such a violent attack had just torn something minor. There wasn’t enough blood for it to really be anything of concern. 

So after collecting himself more, Geralt returned to the barn to finally turn in for the night. 

He wasn’t expecting to see Jaskier poke his head over the edge of the hayloft, worry creasing his features as he stepped back into the barn. 

“Are you alright Geralt?” The question blindsided him a bit. Geralt had thought that Jaskier wouldn’t notice he stepped out, let alone that anything was wrong. And in all honesty, he wasn’t sure what to tell the bard. He’d never been a particularly spectacular liar, especially not with those close to him. 

“I’m alright.” He waved a hand at Jaskier, not looking up at him as he moved to put Roach’s brushes away into one of his packs. Blessedly, the bard remained quiet for a long moment. He didn’t move at all, the hay above didn’t rustle at all, so Geralt knew he was still being watched. But honestly, if Jaskier wasn’t asking questions, there was no need to bring it up. 

“That didn’t exactly sound alright Geralt. You could have been hacking up a lung for all I know.” Jaskier forged on and for a moment the witcher thought he might just drop dead right there. He had never gotten sick around Jaskier before, and he was sure his bard was going to have questions. 

“Must have eaten something off.” It was a poor excuse at best, but he was doing his damndest not to show his alarm in any way. Not in body language or tone. And honestly he thought he was doing a half decent job. Even as he finished packing up the brushes and resigned himself to the idea that he was about to need to join Jaskier in the hayloft to sleep. 

Jaskier didn’t ask anything else, but as Geralt finished climbing up the ladder to meet him where they’d both deposited their things, he could still see the concern written across the bard. It was clear as day, even if Jaskier made half of an attempt to hide it. Logically Geralt knew that the bard had every right to be worried. After all he was throwing up fucking flowers. What wasn’t concerning about that? If he told any normal person about the affliction he would likely be seen as more insane than some already thought he was. Beyond that, he sure as hell couldn’t tell Jaskier. Not after everything had gotten so, well, complicated, in that department. But he couldn’t alleviate Jaskier’s concern without giving him more information than he would ever actually need. So instead he opted for quiet and making sure they were both fed. 

Apparently his excuse was good enough that Jaskier didn’t ask again, or really follow it up with anything. As despite his faint worry, he allowed a good amount of time to be taken by quiet. At one point Geralt even thought that perhaps Jaskier would just be silent for the rest of the night. 

No such luck though, as while they worked on bedding down in a pile of loose hay, Jaskier spoke up once more. 

“Geralt, I’ve been thinking, what are you going to do after you get done with all this?” The words broke the quiet, reaching through the dark to Geralt as Jaskier flopped on top of the unfolded bedroll they were about to share, already pulling his blanket up around himself. 

The question startled him in all honestly. He and Jaskier had talked about the life cycle of witchers before. Of course, Jaskier didn’t usually want to talk about what happened when Geralt’s kind got slow, but he figured that Jaskier at least knew what was up with witchers. 

“After what?” He asked, moving to settle back himself. Maybe Jaskier meant something else then? Something with a more foreseeable end? 

“After all this… witcher-y stuff.” Jaskier clarified. He sounded quiet in the dark, though he was easy enough to see. He’d curled up on his side under a thick blanket, pulling it up under his chin. Honestly it looked like he was just as comfortable in a pile of hay as he may have been in an inn bed. It was something that Geralt had never thought Jaskier would actually get used to. And yet there they were. But for some reason, Jaskier still didn’t understand that there wasn’t really any end for a witcher. 

“There is no after.” He cleared his throat, moving to lay back on his side of the pile of hay. It was simple enough. Eventually he got too old to keep up, or his joints gave out. Or at this point he choked on an entire plant coming up his windpipe. And that was it. There was no after, and there never would be. 

“There’s no chance you would ever retire? Not even if you had reason to?” Jaskier sounded a little saddened, Geralt tried not to acknowledge it much. Why would Jaskier be sad? Surely he’d tire of Geralt long before it became any kind of issue. 

“Witchers don’t retire, Jaskier.” He reminded, almost stern in a way. Why Jaskier was asking was beyond him. What he did know, however, was that witchers didn’t just diverge from the path. They didn’t just go off and decide to lead some comfortable life. They just weren’t built for it, assuming they’d even ever be welcome in any kind of ‘normal’ circle of society. Geralt knew that he was certainly no exception to that rule. Given just who he was in general, he was sure that he may have even been more unwelcome than some of his brothers. 

“You’ve never even thought about it? Settling down, calling someplace home. Maybe even having a family?” The bard seemed intent on pushing, even downcast he was stubborn. The answer was no, Geralt hadn’t thought about it. He had never given himself the luxury. 

Who was he to dream of some future he would never have? He would never settle. There was no place for him to truly call ‘home’. And Kaer Morhen was a somewhat poor stand-in when he spent only a miniscule fraction of his time there. 

Homes were for common folk. It was a place to make a mundane life, to rear children, and eventually to grow old. All things that would be forever beyond Geralt’s grasp. So why should he ever allow himself to entertain some foolish thought of himself in such a situation. He had Roach, and he had… Well Jaskier. That was it. Anything else was beyond him in one way or another. 

It would never be for him, a warm hearth and a cozy living space. The companionship of someone he trusted with every fiber of himself. He would never have the comfort and stability of falling into a bed that was his with someone that was also his. There would never be anything for him in that scope of reality. No place to make a home with someone he cared deeply for, no time for a witcher to simply abandon his duty, what he was originally created for. 

Besides, he was sure that convincing Jaskier to settle would be just as hard. 

“No.” Geralt finally forced out, voice hoarse from the abuse it’d gone through earlier. And certainly not from the tightness that had come with his last thought. What Jaskier’s future had to do with his own wasn’t something they were talking about. As it was they spent enough time with each other. After all, Jaskier was currently curled so close to him that he could feel the other man’s body temperature even through his blanket. 

“I see…” Jaskier murmured. Geralt couldn’t help but wonder why there was discouragement tinting Jaskier’s voice. He offered only a nod, dismissing any thoughts of a comfortable home from his head. It wasn’t for him and it wouldn’t do to go thinking about such things, even if Jaskier was the one to prompt it. 

Geralt figured that was it, Jaskier had finally gone quiet, and it seemed like he was going to bed. The sounds of the town nearby had Geralt still awake even after he’d pulled a blanket up to his chest and gotten settled. There were still people about, laughing and talking, conducting their mundane lives. Free of any weight of any kind of ‘destiny’ dropped on their shoulders by the universe at inopportune times. They were just conducting the lives of people, given the permission to be people

“Hey Geralt?” Jaskier broke the silence as he pushed himself up on his elbow slightly. Geralt shifted minimally, turning his gaze from the ceiling to Jaskier with a small incline of his head. He could see Jaskier’s fingers flex faintly against the bedroll, the bards eyes anywhere but the witcher’s face. He fumbled for a moment before clearing his throat decisively. 

“It’s getting cold, would you mind if I, uh-” He made a vague gesture at Geralt’s chest, leaving him to wonder for a moment what the hell Jaskier was trying to communicate to him. Only for him to remember the last time that Jaskier had claimed that the night was getting to cold for him. 

“I won’t help much.” Geralt scowled. Surely Jaskier knew at that point that he ran relatively cold. It wasn’t difficult to tell that Geralt produced little to no body heat at any given time. It was no secret after all. Of course, Geralt didn’t like to admit when he got cold sooner than Jaskier did. But that was besides the point. For the moment he was watching Jaskier, mildly confused as to why Jaskier would want to share space with him when surely he knew that Geralt had nothing to offer in terms of heat. 

Jaskier seemed to have faltered at that, dropping his gaze again. This time it was to the space between them as he fidgeted. Was he alright? It wasn’t normal for Jaskier to get so, well, awkward. Maybe he was embarrassed about asking? He honestly had no idea. 

“I, uh, mean for you, I know you get cold.” Jaskier eventually said, hand in hand with a small laugh. To be fair maybe he had gotten better at reading when Geralt was cold. But he’d never really pointed it out before. Either way it made Geralt pause, mulling over the thought for a long moment. And after doing so he offered another small nod to Jaskier. 

It took a second before Jaskier seemed to recognize the agreement. Once he did it took him a moment before he moved to settle once more. This time he moved closer to Geralt, and even after the question, Geralt was surprised by the weight of Jaskier’s head resting on his chest. While unfamiliar it wasn’t unwelcome, and he ended up adjusting slightly around Jaskier. 

Given the nature of how Jaskier had gotten close to him he ended up with one arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, the other folded up behind his head. Jaskier seemed content to settle like that, one arm tucked up against Geralt’s chest. 

In all honesty, Jaskier was right, it certainly was warmer. But he knew it was mostly only for him. Jaskier was a furnace compared to a witcher’s death-like heartbeat and temperature. With the chill spreading through the barn it was certainly welcome though, and Geralt didn’t mind pulling a blanket up over himself and up to Jaskier’s ear when the bard had properly settled in. 

Surprisingly enough Jaskier seemed to fall asleep relatively quickly, his breaths evening out into sleep, fingers flexing idly against Geralt’s shirt every now and then. And Geralt was left to stare at the ceiling, an ache radiating from the center of his chest alongside the warmth of Jaskier’s weight. 

With Jaskier asleep though, he was left to let his mind drift. At least until he fell asleep himself, and after a long day, that didn’t take as long as he though. 

When he did drift off his mind lingered on homes overflowing with light, familiar crow’s feet and a much smaller body pressed comfortably into his own.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp here's this I guess, I'm trying to update more regularly now that I've gotten back into this! I hope everyone thinks this is an okay update

“You’re not dancing with anyone.” Geralt’s observation was quiet as he looked from his tankard to Jaskier. 

The square of the town was alive with warm firelight, laughter swimming through the air around them as people danced and sang. It was a rare stolen moment of joy and warmth in otherwise dark times. So the fact that Jaskier was sitting out had Geralt confused. Usually the bard would have gladly inserted himself right into the center of things. Instead he remained with Geralt on the outskirts of the firelight, a tankard of hot spiced cider cupped between his hands. He’d been entirely spaced out as well, staring into the bonfire that licked up into the night sky with a quiet roar, but when he was addressed he jumped slightly, flashing Geralt a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Doesn’t look like I have anyone to dance with.” He hummed, eyes dropping to the tankard in his hands as he tipped it back and forth, watching the dark liquid. 

Jaskier practically glowed under the orange tones of the firelight, the flames highlighting the warm tones in the fabric of his doublet, tracing over the soft curves of his face. Geralt honestly had to remind himself not to stare. Though it was easier to as he thought over what Jaskier had told him, a faint scowl crossing his face. 

“Since when has that stopped you?” He rumbled, looking back to Jaskier. That time the bard didn’t even look to him, thinking for a long moment as he looked out at the crowd. Geralt followed his eyes, watching a man spin his wife around in front of the fire with a broad grin. They looked incredibly enamored with each other, blushed with the chill of the air and the alcohol in their systems. They didn’t dance with grace but with comfort, laughing with their little missteps and enjoying each other's presence. Something like envy curled in Geralt’s stomach as he looked back to Jaskier and the fire reflected in sharp blue eyes. 

“I suppose I’m not interested.” He shrugged, taking a long drink from his cider. 

Geralt allowed that for a long moment, though the scowl didn’t lift from his face. This was the exact atmosphere where Jaskier would have normally flourished. The fact that he wasn’t dancing around with his lute or twirling the local farmer’s daughters around the fire was odd to say the least. Hell he didn’t even seem excited about the whole affair like he had been for the rest of the day. 

Jaskier had practically begged Geralt to come to the festival with him, stating that the wargs could wait one more day. And how long had it been since they’d actually taken time to enjoy local culture or some other bullshit like that. Once he’d convinced Geralt it was over from then on. He’d spent the day dragging Geralt around the festival by the arm. The witcher had put up with it of course. Jaskier would have pouted like a kicked animal had he said no. Honestly he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done something so mundane, following Jaskier as the bard occasionally handed him things. Food, drinks, small trinkets that he bought from the locals, something about supporting a small town. Geralt didn’t understand why Jaskier was so enamored by the whole thing, but he’d resigned himself to the day. 

Yet when the sun went down, and bonfires were lit and lovers began to dance and laugh and enjoy a generally jovial atmosphere, he’d gone pensive and quiet. 

“Now why aren’t  _ you  _ dancing hm?” Jaskier suddenly turned the conversation on Geralt after a few beats of silence, jabbing a finger at him almost jokingly. But the small smile on his face didn’t reach his eyes. Geralt arched an unimpressed eyebrow at the question, Jaskier returned the expression. 

“You know I don’t dance Jaskier.” Geralt wasn’t even sure he knew how in all honesty. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever danced with anyone. Not to mention he was a fucking witcher and he was sure he’d be drawn and quartered if he even looked at a single woman in the area, single or otherwise. The fact that he had been allowed to mingle during the festival was odd enough. He wasn’t going to push it further and risk ruining what was decidedly Jaskier’s day. That wasn’t even getting into how little he actually wanted to dance with anyone. He was perfectly content at the edge of everything, sharing a comparatively calm moment with his companion. 

“Surely you must do something other than killing monsters.” The bard wiggled his fingers at the mention of monsters, imitating some sort of tentacles. Geralt huffed at that. He did plenty of other things. Leatherwork, mending, he was great at tracking and the like… Though to be fair those were involved in monster hunting as a profession. He wasn’t sure that visiting brothels really counted as an ‘activity’ not that he did that much very frequently any more. 

Geralt just offered a small grunt at that, looking back to the fire and lifting his own tankard to down about half of it. He hated when Jaskier was right like that. 

“You need more hobbies Geralt.” Jaskier snorted, elbowing Geralt lightly. The witcher shot him a sharp look at that. He didn’t have time for hobbies. He didn’t have the energy to allocate to anything but the path. After all, with so much time and money and, everything, that went into his work. There just wasn’t space for something else. Honestly the bard didn’t do much other than songwriting, did that count as a hobby? Geralt wasn’t sure, he didn’t know that much about normal life. But he could assume that Jaskier was in much the same boat. He just didn’t realize because Geralt was a witcher and Jaskier was… Well, Jaskier. 

He offered no more comments after that, instead turning his attention to the cool night air around them. The bonfire had yet to die down, a woman threw her arms around her beau’s neck, people gathered around long tables sharing in food and boisterous conversation. Warm smells of spices and roasting meats filled the air, warming the chill of autumn. Red and orange leaves had been swept away from the firelight, but still littered the ground here and there after hours of people treading across the dirt, each practically glowing in the firelight. 

Much like Jaskier. 

He hazarded a glance back at the bard as he lifted his tankard to take another sip of his ale. Jaskier had returned to staring into space, the corners of his mouth pulling downwards slightly. Something about Jaskier’s entire attitude really wasn’t leaving Geralt’s head. The bard was closed off, sitting next to Geralt with his elbows rested on his knees, not spread out and relaxed like he usually was. Something was wrong. Either that or he was incredibly tired and had yet to admit it. Something about him screamed something forlorn that Geralt had never seen in his bard. Not even after Jaskier had gone into over-the top dramatics about his latest lover scorning him. 

Jaskier did more than wear his emotions on his sleeve, he was dramatic about them. A quarrel with some noblewoman would send him ranting for an hour about how he would never love again. Mark his words, no woman would ever take his heart. And lord forbid anyone even breathe mention of Valdo Marx lest Jaskier completely combust with petty fury for three hours. Geralt knew that much better than anyone.

And yet there he was, quiet, solem, distant. Something just wasn’t right. 

He was an idiot. Geralt knew the second the idea crossed into his head. Something was wrong with Jaskier, yes, but Geralt was truly the stupidest person to ever exist. And yet, he was still going to do exactly what had crossed his mind. Maybe it was a day’s worth of drink running through his bloodstream, or the creeping ache of roots clutching through his lungs. But something forced him on once he’d thrown back the rest of his drink and leaned down to set it on the dirt next to his seat. 

Jaskier’s attention moved to him as Geralt pushed himself to stand with a grunt, cracking his back. 

Immediately regret spiderwebbed through Geralt’s thoughts. What was he doing? Since when did he foolishly act on the slightest whim without some kind of thought behind it at very least. Something really was driving him mad, he’d completely lost his sense. But there was no going back at that point. 

“Stop sulking.” He huffed, taking a couple of steps before he turned and beckoned for Jaskier to follow him. For a moment the bard looked at him with plain confusion, before realizing that Geralt was waiting for him to get up. He was up and out of his seat in a moment, following suit in setting his drink aside before he’d gotten to his feet. 

“Are we going somewhere?” He asked, looking between Geralt and the crowd, completely overlooking the hand that Geralt still had extended. Geralt scowled at the bard, was Jaskier really that unobservant? No wonder he’d slept with so many many or betrothed women. Did he not get it?

“To dance. Your sulking is making my head hurt.” Geralt muttered, offering his hand again. 

Suddenly Jaskier was looking at him like he’d said something incredibly outlandish, eyes slightly wide with surprise as he searched Geralt’s face. It made the witcher want to squirm, suddenly wondering if he’d somehow done something horribly wrong. Was he really misinterpreting? Did he read Jaskier wrong? Maybe he did genuinely want to be left alone, maybe it was something else. Missing a lover perhaps? That made more sense. Oh god, Geralt had completely fucked everything up hadn’t he? Suddenly he nearly felt sick. And not the kind of sick that had become disgustingly familiar in recent weeks. 

“Well, are you coming or not?” He frowned, still holding his hand out, and forcing his voice to be steady. If Jaskier said no he could excuse himself and figure out how to sort out the screaming mess he’d thrown his mind into. Panic had flooded through him like he had a wyvern breathing down the back of his neck, and honestly it wasn’t going away, he could hear his rushed heartbeat thrumming through his ears, and struggled to remain collected for the time being. 

“I didn’t think you much one for-” Jaskier made a vague gesture at all of Geralt. “- anything like this.” His voice was quiet, but he was putting his hand in Geralt’s before the witcher could rethink again. 

“Come on then witcher, let’s see what kind of grace you’ve got in those feet.” The spark had suddenly returned to Jaskier’s eyes, a wolfish grin flashing across his face before Geralt was being pulled into the center of things. 

It was more than whiplash as he allowed Jaskier to move him, suddenly wondering if he’d made a mistake for different reasons. 

But one look at Jaskier as the bard’s hand lighted on his shoulder solidified that no, he hadn’t made any kind of mistake. 

Jaskier’s smile had returned to his eyes, something that completely perplexed Geralt. Surely him being that down couldn’t simply be solved by having something to do? Maybe Geralt was just overthinking and that was exactly it. Either way the bard was swiftly pressed against him from his left hip to shoulder, and Geralt’s pulse refused to slow even in the slightest. It was a moment before he realized he had barely moved, dropping his own free hand to Jaskier’s waist as the shorter man shifted to pull Geralt into a quick-stepped dance that matched the pace of the jaunty music. 

In what felt like a flash Geralt was pulled into a whirl of other dancers, rooted in his footing only by Jaskier’s firm guidance. While it may have appeared to an outsider that Geralt was the one in control, Jaskier was calling all of the shots. Honestly he was doing his best to keep up with Jaskier, eyes flickering between Jaskier’s face and the other dancers that wheeled around the fire around them. 

Something about the warmth of Jaskier against him, the music and the entire atmosphere had Geralt’s thoughts ebbing away. Instead all that remained was the warmth of firelight, and the quick rhythm that he’d fallen into with Jaskier. Honestly Geralt still felt clumsy about the entire thing. He was more suited to broad, confident movements, not the swift turn and rhythm of dance that Jaskier had pulled him into. 

But Jaskier was  _ there  _ and absolutely shining in the bright light of the fire, laughing with ease and reassuring the witcher whenever Geralt made a misstep. It seemed as if he didn’t mind in the slightest, simply enjoying himself in the moment, and after a while, Geralt couldn’t draw his eyes away. Jaskier seemed more lost in the moment than anything, an easygoing smile across his features. His attention seemed to flick between the fire, the others they danced with and Geralt. 

Geralt knew he shouldn’t have been staring like he was, but he couldn’t help it. Something in him screamed for him to take in every second that he was given with Jaskier’s warm fingers laced with his, the bard at ease and smiling in his arms. Somewhere along the line his hand had moved from Jaskier’s waist to his back, leaving Geralt’s arm tucked firmly around his bard. 

He was slowly realizing that Jaskier was no waif, his hands were strong and warm wherever they pressed to Geralt’s body, whether it was their palms pressed tight together or the arm that had worked up over Geralt’s shoulder, hand pressed to the base of Geralt’s neck. He could feel the strength of Jaskier’s movement, the way he shifted against the witcher with every step. Geralt was fucking enamored with every little thing about Jaskier and if he was being truly honest it was a curse. He had Jaskier there in his arms but for what? For a dance or two? Just to cheer up a friend? 

That’s what Jaskier was, yes. A friend. 

Despite the firm mental reminder, Geralt couldn’t drag his attention away from the bard. It felt like Jaskier was the only thing in the world at that moment. It was just him, Jaskier, the music, and the rhythm of their feet. 

“Do I have something on my face?” Jaskier’s light chuckle seemed only loud enough for Geralt to hear, jarring him out of the daze he’d fallen into. Geralt cleared his throat and shook his head, muttering a half-apology and dragging his eyes away. Right, he wasn’t supposed to be staring, at all. Jaskier was his bard, sure, but not like that. Never like that. Pain bloomed through his chest, a silent reminder. 

He looked back to the bard only to see Jaskier’s eyes already on him, a familiar look on his face that Geralt had no idea how to process when it was directed at him. But Jaskier held eye contact for a long moment as the song drew to a close. Something occupied the space between them for a long moment, so thick that it made Geralt nervous. He knew his heart was pounding against his ribcage, and desperately hoped that Jaskier couldn’t feel it through his shirt. The bard’s expression hadn’t changed a bit, and it was starting to scare Geralt. He didn’t know how to respond, didn’t even know what to think, his mind had been completely cleared, filled with only an overwhelming sense of discomfort and urgency all at once. 

After a moment he was about to pull away before the strings picked up once more, this time slow, sweet. Something that wasn’t for dancing with friends. 

Before he could pull away though, Jaskier had perked up, blinking out of whatever had happened in the few breaths of quiet between them. 

“Oh! I know this one.” He hummed, a warm content showing across all of him. Geralt almost did pull away, but Jaskier seemed to be about to pick up their dance again. 

“You should have an easier time with this.” He flashed Geralt a soft smile as the larger man allowed himself to be pulled along once more. Somehow he couldn’t find the strength to pull away. He and Jaskier had been dancing long enough for Jaskier to be slightly out of breath, but if Jaskier wanted one more dance, Geralt didn’t think he could refuse his bard. Not at the moment. Not when he could feel the happiness rolling off of Jaskier. Not when the bard’s hands were on him and for a little while he could give himself permission to feel like a person. Permission to simply take a moment and enjoy something with no real substance, something he could brand into his mind forever. 

Jaskier was right, Geralt could relax as he was lead through a much easier rhythm. Unfortunately that just meant even more space in his head for him to be entirely distracted. Especially when Jaskier shifted and suddenly Geralt had the other man’s head tucked into the crook of his neck. 

In a moment Geralt felt like he was going to combust. Surely Jaskier could hear Geralt’s heartbeat rattling from where he’d tucked himself against the witcher’s neck. He was so close that Geralt could feel the other man’s eyelashes against his skin, the tip of Jaskier’s nose against the hollow of his throat. He had no idea what to do, or if he was to do anything. Jaskier was warm, pressed full-bodied against him at that point. Geralt felt like he could hardly breathe. Jaskier smelled like cider and hay and firelight and it it was all rushing up into sharp senses. It was intoxicating, warm, and just so  _ so  _ much. If Geralt was a sensible man he would have pulled away, taken his leave before he got too caught up in the moment. But he wasn’t a sensible man in recent days, apparently. And instead he did the opposite, drawing Jaskier impossibly closer. His fingers curled around Jaskier’s opposite side, pressing into the fine fabric of the other man’s doublet. 

And Jaskier fucking settled in against him. 

He relaxed into the contact like a cat sprawling out on a hearth, Geralt felt a deep exhale against his collar, sending shivers racing over his skin. Even after waking to Jaskier curled into his side, the contact was impossible to wrap his head around. There was a difference between Jaskier getting close to him for the sake of a comfortable temperature. And… whatever was happening. But Geralt was in no space to complain. In fact, he figured opening his mouth was a bad idea, because he could taste flowers, and so desperately didn’t want to ruin a moment that Jaskier seemed so content in. If Jaskier wanted to be close then by god he could be close. Who was Geralt to refuse him? 

Surely Jaskier was missing someone, and Geralt was a good stand-in for the time being, it made sense. That had to be it. 

For the moment though, Jaskier was his. Some part of Geralt knew that Jaskier would return to the arms of one of his many lovers soon. Maybe someday he would find someone who his heart truly belonged to. He would settle, and Geralt would continue on as he had before meeting Jaskier. But for the moment, right there in the firelight, with the stars above them, embers and music drifting through the air, he could almost believe that Jaskier was his. Just for a moment. 

That moment drew to a close far too quickly. Before Geralt felt like he had time to properly absorb all of it, the music was finally ending, for good. People broke apart with smiles and chatter, faint laughter sparkling through the night in bursts. 

Jaskier pulled away too quickly, Geralt had to force himself to release the bard. But he still seemed content, even standing back from where he’d been practically snuggled into Geralt’s chest. Some part of the witcher ached, and once again he was left desperately wanting something he knew so completely that he could never have. There was no life for him other than the path, and he would never call Jaskier his own in more than friendship. Though in that moment he was painfully realizing that was exactly what he wanted. He wanted Jaskier’s calloused hands and his laughter and his lopsided smiles, and stupid bawdy songs, and just everything about the bard. He wanted Jaskier despite never knowing why the idiot insisted on trailing a witcher around despite the dangers, and the thankless lifestyle. 

He just, wanted Jaskier. And it hurt so fucking badly, because even with Jaskier smiling up at him, saying something that he couldn’t hear over his own thoughts, he knew that it would never be. Friendship with a witcher was extreme enough for even the most daring. 

For a moment succumbing to the disease didn’t seem so bad. Maybe if it was going to kill him, he could at least try to enjoy Jaskier a little longer.

“I need a drink.” He finally managed, pulling completely away from Jaskier as he tried not to let his thoughts get away from himself. Honestly he didn’t, he needed to get away, he could feel an episode coming on. And while it had thankfully not come up while he and Jaskier were busy, it was coming fast and Geralt had a sinking feeling it was going to be worse than usual. 

“Tired you out did I?” Jaskier grinned, cocking his hands on his hips and offering Geralt a raised eyebrow. Geralt just shrugged before making himself scarce. 

Was it abrupt? Perhaps. But so was the torrent of fragrant blooms that came rushing up his throat nearly the second he’d stepped out of the ring of firelight. 

Geralt only had enough time to hurry out of earshot before he was practically collapsing. Pain lanced through him in a wave worse than he’d experienced before. Something in his chest felt like it was tearing as he doubled over in an alley, unable to stop the onslaught as he doubled over.

He couldn’t fucking see, his vision had gone dark as coughs shook through him. White flashed behind his eyelids each time, leaving speckles in his vision as he heaved, trying to expel the blooms faster so he could regain some semblance of his dignity. But his body had no such plans. The pain continued to get more intense, the ripping sensation growing so strong that for a moment Geralt thought that maybe the plant had finally torn right through his lungs. It was hard enough to breathe as it was. He could barely even stay on his feet, dizziness swarming through him as he choked on another mouthful of flowers. 

This one came with the sharp, iron tang of blood, and Geralt fell to his knees as it splattered across the petals in patches. 

He felt like he was going to pass out, he wasn’t getting enough air in. His lungs felt like they were already full, the smell of arbutus stifling him painfully. Distantly, he wondered if he was about to actually die, choked by something growing deep in his chest cavity, in some little town that would never miss his absence. Fitting, for him, honestly. Geralt wouldn’t be surprised, and he thought that over as his body let up for long enough that he could draw a few short, desperate breaths, before the coughing returned. It was mixed with faint retching, a body’s response to trying to expel anything and everything foreign as fast as it could. 

Apparently, even a witcher’s keen senses didn’t persist under such bodily strain. And Geralt missed the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, or the sound of someone kneeling behind him as he struggled to breathe. 

Warm hands found his temples, unexpected contact that would have usually made Geralt jump for his sword. But there was no time for fight or flight when his own body was tearing itself apart. 

The hands were gentle, but shaky, sweeping forward to draw his hair back from his face as Geralt curled in on himself again, chest clenching painfully and washing his vision in white sparks again. As soon as his hair had been drawn away from his face, one hand dropped to his back, beginning to rub reassuring circles into his shirt. The touch was familiar, and faintly, horribly, Geralt realized it was Jaskier. Jaskier sitting there with him in the dark while something slowly killed him, and he struggled for any shred of a break, let alone his composure. 

It felt like an eternity before it stopped. Geralt’s entire body screamed. He wanted to join it, because Jaskier was there. And he was as gentle as ever, coaxing Geralt to sit back up once it was clear that he had finished self-destructing. 

“Geralt? Are you alright?” Jaskier’s voice matched his hands, tremoring faintly as the hand against Geralt’s back pressed firmer into his skin. 

Geralt couldn’t muster a response, words failed him so completely, and white still swam through his vision. He felt lightheaded, the world wouldn’t stay still around him. Jaskier’s hands were the only things that stayed still in the miasma that had settled over the witcher. 

His breath rasped in his throat as Jaskier shuffled slightly closer to him, shifting to convince Geralt to lean into him. If he had been in his right mind, Geralt wouldn’t have pressed into Jaskier like he did at that moment. He found himself leaning into Jaskier, face pressed into the bard’s shoulder as he struggled to even think straight. Some kind of delirium had settled over him that he couldn’t shake. His heart rate refused to calm down, all he could taste was blood and acrid-sweet flowers. 

The taste smothered him as the world began to fade out and Geralt slipped into unconsciousness.


	7. Chapter 7

“Geralt-” 

The sound of his own name cut through quiet darkness, it was enough to make Geralt shift, trying to retreat back into the void. He didn’t have to think, didn’t want to. If he opened his eyes he’d be back in reality, which was arguably so much worse. 

“Geralt? Please wake up.” The voice came again, properly pulling Geralt from unconsciousness as he was jostled lightly. As he came to, pain bloomed through his skull, stretching tendrils down to his chest, digging roots in wherever they could reach. 

Beyond the pain, however, Geralt was beginning to make out the sweet, dry smell of hay. The warmth of a blanket had been settled over him, and somewhere outside wind rustled through tall trees. Most of the other sensations were muted by the throbbing of his head. And to be fair he hadn’t had a headache of such magnitude since the last time he’d nearly died of blood loss. This felt different though, he didn’t feel as spacey as he would have if he was still functioning after nearly bleeding out. 

As he finally forced himself to open his eyes, the barn slowly faded into view. While Geralt’s vision was speckled with black, it wasn’t hard to make out Jaskier’s figure leaning over him. 

With that sight it all came flooding back, dancing with Jaskier, enjoying his time spent with the bard. Only for it to be undermined by the damn sickness that had been making his life hell for months. That much had become routine after so long. But what wasn’t routine was Jaskier actually finding him during one of his attacks. He couldn’t shake the memory of Jaskier’s hands on him, how he’d collapsed into his bard after spending what felt like forever choking up flower petals. He supposed that somewhere along the line after he’d blacked out, he’d been moved back to the barn where he and Jaskier had stayed the night previous. While he couldn’t remember being moved, or even who moved him, he was laying in a pile of hay with Jaskier sitting at his side, perhaps the bard had gotten help from someone else? 

“Oh my- you’re awake, finally-” Jaskier’s tone was worried almost to the point of panic, and while Geralt still hadn’t quite entirely come to, he could feel Jaskier’s hands folded around one of his own, calloused fingertips sliding over the backs of his knuckles worriedly. The bard leaned over him again slightly, and Geralt locked eyes with him for a brief second before he was shifting to sit up. 

“I’m fine Jaskier.” He rumbled, shaking his head slightly to try and shake off the rest of the mental fog that had settled over him. The shake set off another wave of the pulsing headache that had settled behind his eyes, nearly making Geralt wince. 

“Fine?  _ Fine _ ?” Jaskier scoffed, eyes going wide with a mix of frustration and worry. 

“You’re telling me you’re just fine after-  _ THAT _ ?” The bard sputtered, catching Geralt’s attention as his features twisted into a scowl. There was still worry behind his eyes, but he seemed more annoyed with Geralt for the time being. For the moment the witcher could only really offer a nod at the comment. Exactly. He was fine. He’d been dealing with the same shit for months. It was just more severe this one time. Honestly Geralt doubted it would be so bad again. And if it was it would likely kill him, if it wasn’t already doing just that. 

“Geralt I have traveled with you for years and I have never even seen you catch a cold.” Jaskier’s tone was fierce as a hand pushed into the center of Geralt’s chest, moving him back down to lay in the hay pile. 

“And I stumble on you throwing up a damn  _ bouquet _ and it’s just fine? You’re just fine? And okay?” He wasn’t letting up any time soon, and honestly Geralt was at a loss. What was he supposed to tell Jaskier? It wasn’t something that many knew about. And those that did only knew it as fiction, some old wive’s tale. Honestly the whole situation was absurd, and explaining it to Jaskier was the last thing he wanted to do. Especially when the edges of his vision were flickering with what was likely a migraine developing between his temples. 

“Leave it Jaskier.” It was nearly a growl as he pulled his hand from the bard’s grip, moving his hands to rub down his face. He was faintly sweaty, likely from exertion from earlier. But the more important fact was that Jaskier knew, Jaskier had caught him at his most vulnerable. And in all likelihood he wasn’t going to stop asking until he got something of an explanation. But Geralt couldn’t tell him, he couldn’t tell Jaskier he’d fallen hopelessly for him, and was grappling with deeply terrifying feelings that he didn’t want to think too much about. Lest it completely wreck him mentally. 

“Geralt I have only ever heard about things like this happening in songs and stories. I will do no such thing.” Jaskier persisted, not allowing Geralt to sit up even when the witcher dropped his hands to level a scowl at his companion. The fact that Jaskier had heard of it was… well, worrying to say the least. Did he know the connotations? What caused it? Did he know if it was fatal or not? 

“I said I will be fine.” Geralt insisted. He didn’t need Jaskier looking into it too much, asking questions. He’d already resigned himself to suffering in silence. If Jaskier was aware of everything it would make things so much harder, the bard wouldn’t shut up about it getting fixed somehow. It all had Geralt cursing himself. Because of his error Jaskier was far too aware of what was going on. He hadn’t gotten far enough away, hadn’t excused himself fast enough. It was something. Why did Jaskier have to come after him? What reasoning did he even have? It was all just too damn much. 

“Bullshit Geralt-” Jaskier was cut off by another glare from the annoyed witcher. It had Jaskier’s look softening slightly, but still not that much. Geralt just wished he would leave something alone for once. He didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to have to explain it to Jaskier when the bard was the whole reason it existed. It was pretty likely that Jaskier would even feel responsible for what was happening if he found out he was who Geralt had fallen for. After all it wasn’t like he felt the same way. When Jaskier liked someone it was incredibly obvious, Geralt had seen it too many times to not know if Jaskier felt the same way about him. He didn’t. So there was no need to burden Jaskier with the knowledge. 

The wind picked up slightly outside, filling the moment of quiet between them. Geralt still refused to meet Jaskier’s eyes, even if the bard stared him down intently. He wanted answers, that much was clear, but Geralt honestly was in no mood to give them up. 

“Please Geralt, I know how these stories end.” Jaskier spoke up again after a long moment, voice creaking slightly. 

Shit, so he knew. He knew what the sickness meant, what it did. It was fatal, Geralt had become increasingly aware of that as time had marched on. There was no way it wasn’t going to kill him after it had been getting steadily worse. And even if it wasn’t directly fatal, with Geralt’s line of work, an attack at the wrong time would simply spell his death, whether he liked it or not. But for the time being the thing that was about to kill him was the look Jaskier was giving him. It brimmed with worry and some kind of fear that Geralt couldn’t place. And something else, something entirely unfamiliar that he hadn’t seen before. 

“I already told you I’m fine Jaskier. I’m a witcher.” He muttered, pushing himself up into a sitting position once more. Jaskier didn’t protest that time, even if his brows pitched down into a small scowl. 

“It still knocked you out Geralt.” The protest was firm, even as Jaskier sat back on his heels, fixing Geralt with a faint scowl of his own. 

How far was he going to get with this? Something akin to anxiety churned in the pit of his stomach. Jaskier knew, something had to change. The last thing Geralt wanted to do was hurt Jaskier. And in all honesty it seemed like that was what he was doing. Jaskier was worried about him, really worried. It was foreign, sure, but it wasn’t needed. Was he just going to stress Jaskier out if he stuck around? Now that the secret was out, would he be able to step off and deal with it discreetly? Questions scrabbled at him as he rested his arms on his knees, getting used to sitting up even with the pain still ebbing through his body. 

The barn creaked with the wind, horses stirring in their stalls, silence was a non-option and yet it was deafening. 

“Like I said, I’m alright.” Geralt didn’t have any other answer for Jaskier, even if his bard looked more and more crestfallen by the moment.

“I’m not an idiot Geralt. You know you can tell me about these things.” Jaskier looked almost hurt, and it twisted something deep in Geralt’s chest. He knew that, he knew Jaskier said he could share whatever he needed to, whenever he needed to. But he would never burden someone else with all of that, with knowing what went on inside his head. Jaskier didn’t need to carry the weight of knowing that Geralt had fallen so hard for him. It would be almost cruel to put the other man through that. 

“I can’t make you tell me, but we need to get you help. I don’t know who’s causing this, but we aren’t doing anything else until you deal with it” Jaskier made a gesture to Geralt’s chest region, earning a look from the witcher. He supposed he had no place to protest, Jaskier was putting his foot down, and to his credit, Geralt knew the other man could be stubborn as a mule. It was remarkable really. Jaskier was nothing if not persistent and stubborn. He wondered if the bard’s lovers knew such things, if they’d seen Jaskier when he got stuck on something, big or small. 

So for the moment he simply let Jaskier have the victory. If it meant he stopped asking questions, Geralt would go along with it. 

With that the conversation thankfully seemed to be over. Jaskier withdrew, telling Geralt to eat something before he claimed he was turning in. Honestly it was a little surprising he hadn’t pried more, but it was a blessing all the same. 

Geralt couldn’t help but steal a few glances over at Jaskier as the bard laid down, back-to him. Jaskier curled in on himself more than usual, pulling his blanket up to his nose and scowling into the dark of the hayloft. For a moment he wished he could join the other man, wished he could go lay down and wrap his arms around Jaskier from behind and sleep with him like that. And he likely could have, Jaskier likely would have offered no protest. But it wasn’t the same. Geralt wanted more, more than he should have wanted with anyone, let alone Jaskier. Someone just caught in the crossfire of a witcher’s life. 

He deserved so much more, more than being confined to the path, trailing Geralt for months on end. He deserved more than haylofts and shabby inn rooms. Not only that but he deserved someone who could afford to love him, who could freely give themself to the bard. Someone that didn’t come with decades of baggage and who was actually designed to feel and offer love. Not a witcher. Never a witcher, Jaskier deserved better. 

It was a creeping realization that started to hit Geralt as Jaskier finally drifted off to sleep. He was doing more harm than good by sticking around with his bard, it was selfish. Especially now that Jaskier knew what was going on. He couldn’t subject Jaskier to such a thing, that was cruelty in its own right. By staying close he was only going to hurt Jaskier, he was only going to make the other man worry over him every time he had to step into the woods to cough up flowers. 

He couldn’t stay. 

It hurt to think about, but as the night dragged on, the idea solidified itself in Geralt’s mind. He couldn’t stay and cause Jaskier more pain. As much as he wanted to enjoy his last few weeks with the bard. He couldn’t subject Jaskier to watching him die. For some perplexing reason the bard cared for him more than he ever should have, and Geralt didn’t want to inflict that kind of thing on him. 

The realization was slow, but it didn’t hurt any less. If only Geralt had been more careful, maybe he could have stayed a little longer. Listened to Jaskier laugh and take in the changing seasons, he could have seen him smile a little longer. But he was quick to resign himself to what needed to happen. He needed to leave. Before Jaskier asked more questions, before the plants killed him outright. 

After a long deliberation, Geralt finally moved to his feet.

He was silent in his movements, rolling up his bedroll and packing everything else away. While saying goodbye at least would have been good, to have his last memory of Jaskier be something more pleasant, Geralt knew he wasn’t likely to get away so easily if he tried to tell Jaskier he was leaving. Hell the bard may even convince him to stay. He couldn’t risk it, he had to go.

So once he’d carefully put all of his things away and geared up properly, he took one last look at Jaskier. The weight settling in his chest was different from the pain, something weighing heavy on him as he took on the bard’s form. 

But all things had to end, and Geralt only lingered a moment before he was stealing off to tack up Roach. She snuffled at his shirt as he did so, shifting under his hands sleepily. He felt bad for waking her in the middle of the night, but it had to be done. 

The night air was crisp, almost cold when Geralt lead Roach out of the barn quietly. The door creaked as it was pushed closed, and Geralt could only hope that it wasn’t going to wake Jaskier. He stood in the dark, in the quiet for a long moment after the fact, straining his ears for any shifting that may give away the fact that Jaskier had woken for one reason or another. But the only thing he heard were sleeping horses and the rattle of trees in the wind. 

He took a moment to fish a thick cloak out of Roach’s saddlebags before mounting up and turning the horse towards the road that lead out of town. 

Riding at night had never been Geralt’s favorite. But in that moment it was worse than usual. Something had settled over him that had pain welling in his throat. Not the sharp, scratching pain of vegetation but something else, a deep ache that refused to go away even as he cleared his throat multiple times. 

Jaskier would find someone else, he was sure. It would be better if he vanished, gave Jaskier a reason to hate him if he so chose. Jaskier would hurt less in the end. He would move on, maybe even latch on to a different witcher if he was really that interested in them as a whole. Hopefully he would lead a happy, fulfilling life, without the worry that he’d be hurt in the precarious lives that witcher’s led. 

He’d be just fine without Geralt. 

It was with shame and horror that Geralt realized that the tightness in his throat was the pressure of held back tears. His eyes burned, making him blink rapidly as he gripped Roach’s reins even tighter. Jaskier would be okay without him. He reassured himself of that much, but something about it hurt. Everything had hurt recently. But it was usually all physical. Physical pain was easy, he could grit his teeth and muscle through it. Emotions on the other hand, had never been his forte. 

He could still grit his teeth through it though, keeping his head held high as he nudged Roach to move faster. If he gave himself time to think, he didn’t want to risk the possibility of allowing himself to turn back. He’d made his choice, Jaskier would be better off without him for the time being. It was leading towards winter anyways. Geralt doubted he’d even make it that long with how things were going. 

The town eventually faded off into fields as Geralt rode, trying to stave off the burn of tears as he fixed his eyes on the horizon. He just reminded himself over and over that he was saving Jaskier heartache in the long run. His bard would be okay. 

Riding at least gave him something to focus on, Roach was happy to pick up a swift trot as they finally reached the edge of the forest. Geralt leaned over her neck to bump his forehead briefly into the horse’s mane. He needed to steady himself if he was going to get any farther. It wouldn’t do to have a breakdown or something between one town and the next. Besides, he had to stay sharp, lest something catch him off guard again, like the wargs on the other side of town. 

He should have stayed and dealt with them, but perhaps another time. For the moment he needed to leave. 

Geralt forced himself to empty his mind, slowly but surely pushing everything out until he could focus on the road ahead and Roach. The horse maintained her speed without him needing to direct her, ears forward and alert as she moved. In all honesty Geralt owed a lot to how well his mare was trained. He could effectively zone out on her back and trust she would follow the road easily enough without his direction. 

It had never been more handy than it was in the moment, as Geralt was finding it hard to focus even after clearing his head. He turned to forcing himself to focus on something else, scanning the trees for anything as the dark crept in around him and Roach. 

He didn’t realize how much time had passed before an outlook stretched out before him and his horse. A break in the trees looked down over the valley and the little village still lit up in the night. The festival had been cleaned up hours prior, but a few lights still glowed in the dark.

Geralt didn’t give himself long to look at it before he was nudging Roach on once more. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are more italics in this chapter than the rest of the entire fic combined
> 
> Enjoy.

Much like the rest of life, autumn seemed keen to turn ugly as quickly as it had bloomed with beauty. 

Trees that days ago had been alight with oranges and reds of changing leaves were soon reaching skeletal fingers towards the skies. Their leaves had been scattered across roads and the ground, quickly going brown like everything else in the area. 

Roach’s hoofbeats were partially muffled by the thick cover across the roads as Geralt rode. He had pulled his hood up against the encroaching cold, the rest of the fabric crowded tight around him over his armor. Geralt hated the cold seasons, and he was too far away from Kaer Morhen for his tastes. The pass was likely to be too snowed in for use in a month or less, and it seemed like he was half a continent away anyways. It was all spelling a very bleak winter for Geralt, and given how the cold was already clawing at his skin in mid autumn, he wasn’t incredibly excited about it. 

If worst came to worst he would find somewhere to put Roach up for the winter so she wouldn’t have to deal with the cold. The idea of leaving his horse in someone else’s hands made him ill, but he knew it would be better for her sake. She wasn’t made for harsh winters spent travelling. Neither was Geralt in all honesty, but the rest of his options for the winter were quickly escaping him. He’d thrown away the option of staying with Jaskier for the winter, but it seemed as if staying with his brothers was out of the picture as well. A lean winter it was he supposed. While he was trying not to think too much on it when it was still mid-autumn, it lurked at the back of his mind. The nights were already getting brisk for Roach, but he would figure something out soon. 

As it was he focused on the muffled plodding of her steps, trying not to think about anything else either. 

If he let himself think for too long, his mind would drift to Jaskier, to the night he had left. What had the aftermath looked like? When Jaskier woke up to an empty place where Geralt should have been. He didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to think about how much the abandonment may have hurt Jaskier. No witcher could afford to think about how they may have caused anyone pain. Especially those they were close to. Then again, Geralt knew he was an outlier in that sense. Witchers didn’t just go around forging connections with people. 

He’d made the mistake, and he rightfully had to deal with the fallout alone. 

That was what he got he supposed, for falling in love with someone. Especially someone like Jaskier. 

It hadn’t been intentional of course, he hadn’t  _ meant _ to fall in love with Jaskier. It had just sort of  _ happened.  _

Geralt could never really place when it had begun of course. Maybe it was the tenth time he and Jaskier had run into each other again after a long winter spent apart? When Jaskier had seen him and bounded across a town square to pat Roach and talk the witcher’s ear off about what Geralt had missed in the life of his bard. 

Maybe it was when he and Jaskier had camped outside of a small town for what must have been a week while Geralt recovered from a hunt. Jaskier had tried to hide how concerned he was the whole time, all while repeatedly asking Geralt if he was sure he’d cleaned his wounds properly, or if he was positive he knew how long it would take to heal up. 

In all honesty maybe it was just everything. It was summer evenings spent in too-warm taverns while Jaskier serenaded a small crowd and Geralt drank through a pint or two of watery ale. It was spring days spent traveling, taking in the fragrance of new undergrowth while Jaskier crooned on about some ballad he was writing. Or catching Jaskier sneaking treats to Roach when he thought that the witcher wasn’t paying attention. Not that Geralt ever particularly minded. Jaskier always thought he was getting away with something, and Roach was always happy to munch away on sugar cubes or whatever else Jaskier may have snuck her. 

The absence of his bard was something Geralt thought he would get used to. He and Jaskier had parted ways many times before, for the winters especially. Or when Jaskier had other things to do. But this time more than ever, Geralt was aware of how alone he was. 

He missed the sound of footsteps falling in line next to Roach’s hooves, the occasional song drifting through the breeze as they traveled. Hell, Geralt was beginning to miss Jaskier’s complaining. The bard always knew when to stop for the night, he was always there to offer his dramatics until Geralt agreed to stop and they made camp. There was something missing from his life, some presence that he’d grown far too used to. Instead it had returned to being just him. 

Geralt was left to what he had known for so long, the path, and loneliness. 

It was just life, Geralt tried to remind himself of that as he rode. Witchers weren’t supposed to form attachments at all. It was his damn fault that he’d gotten attached. He should have pushed Jaskier away from the start. The pain he was going through was his own fault, if he had just been strong enough it wouldn’t have mattered. He could have just told Jaskier to fuck off and move on. But no, no he had to get attached. Jaskier had to stick to him like a burr and make him care, make him want to be around someone else. And where had that gotten Geralt? 

Right back where he had started. Except with a significantly larger ache in his chest. And the knowledge that he was likely going to be dead before winter’s end, whether or not he made it to Kaer Morhen on time. Maybe if he made it there or to a sorceress, he could have something done about his… affliction. But he didn’t have much hope in that department. 

It was better to just resign himself to the cold, and to keep on. Which was exactly what Geralt was trying to do. Gloved hands had twisted into the reins he held, fingers sore from how hard he had them clenched. It made him wince as he forced himself to release the reins for a moment, flexing his fingers experimentally to get blood flowing through them again. Cold had seeped into his extremities, making him uncomfortable and achy, and he knew it was only going to get worse as the season crept further on. 

Geralt was no stranger to pain, but the full-body ache that had been consuming him since he’d woken up in that barn was starting to get to him. It was a dull throb that seemed to lance through every part of his body in waves emanating from his chest. His fingers and toes starting to go numb from cold certainly wasn’t a welcome addition. 

The next town was within a day’s ride though, and Geralt just hoped he could find a room once he got there. 

As it was, riding was so quiet without Jaskier. Silence of such magnitude left Geralt on edge. Small noises from the woods around him had Geralt startling, half the time nearly going for a sword. Since when had he been so incredibly jumpy? He’d run himself ragged before, he wasn’t unused to riding and traveling when he was tired and in pain. But something about being so alone was different. He couldn’t shake the crushing knowledge that yes, he was alone. More alone than he had been in a long time. Because not only did he leave Jaskier behind, but he wasn’t going to see Jaskier again. He’d squandered a chance at any kind of goodbye in favor of sparing his bard the pain, and instead was left to deal with it on his own. 

Time had worn him down, made him soft, Geralt had to admit that. He’d never forgotten how to be a witcher. That was impossible, it was drilled into his very being, his creation. Geralt was nothing if he wasn’t a witcher, as much of a curse as it was. But it felt like he had lost something else, something he couldn’t really place. There was a gap somewhere in his awareness of himself, some yawning hole that he hadn’t noticed until he had left Jaskier, something was missing. 

For the time being Geralt put his mind off of it. He focused on moving forward, on making it to the next town, on keeping his head up and moving on. Jaskier would be fine without him, why couldn’t he just forget the bard? Of course, he knew why he couldn’t forget, but it still haunted him. Why couldn’t he just let go? 

He knew the answer to that, but it was just easier not to think about it. Because thinking about it was likely to bring on another storm of petals, and Geralt wasn’t sure how much more of that he could take before it finally put him in the ground. 

Maybe if he was buried once the sickness killed him, flowers would bloom from his grave. It sounded nice. Though the likelihood of him being buried was low. He would die in combat or on the road, and it was pretty much certain that his body wouldn’t even be recovered. 

Geralt eventually pulled himself out of his thoughts as he began to see buildings through the woods, a town where he would hopefully be able to spend the night. It was a relief, maybe they would have a job for him as well. Anything was better than the silence. He didn’t care what kind of problem may haunt the townspeople, he would take any opportunity to get his mind off of what he had lost. 

Looks from the common folk didn’t even draw Geralt’s attention as he dismounted from Roach at the edge of town. It would be easier to lead her anyways, not to mention that the increased bloodflow would be good for his body temperature. 

Talking to people had never been Geralt’s strong suit, especially not when he was tired and hurting. So he was especially careful to be polite and quiet when he finally found the inn and spoke to the innkeeper. He got several looks from others in passing, but kept his head up. And after a short conversation, he was picking up the key that had been slid across the counter at him. With that he was ducking back out to take Roach around to the stables and get her posted up for the night. 

It was methodical work, making sure Roach was cared for. First Geralt stripped her of her tack, giving her plenty of pats as he did so. The mare stood patiently as Geralt went about his work, fishing brushes out of his packs to brush her down carefully, getting the dust and dirt out of her coat with long, methodical strokes. She lazily watched other people that went in and out of the stable as Geralt pulled up a stool to sit on while he picked Roach’s hooves. 

The rustle of other horses and the idle sounds of a town conducting life outside was honestly welcome compared to the silence of an open road. Geralt was finally able to zone out as he worked, mind empty save for the task at hand. Nobody bothered him, he was free to take care of his horse and make sure she was properly fed and bedded down before even considering taking care of himself. That included taking the time to brush out her mane and tail as well, rubbing a hand down her nose as he worked through a few tangles in her mane. 

After that much was handled, Geralt double-checked that Roach had enough food and water for the night before he was slinking off to find his room at the inn. 

It was… Fine. The room had a bed, a small desk, and thankfully a fireplace off to one side. Geralt had to bring in his own firewood. But that was easy enough once he actually found the woodpile out back. And finally after a long day of being cold and hurting, Geralt got a roaring fire going, finally able to warm his hands. 

The same routine began to become Geralt’s norm. Travelling was lonely yes, but the attacks of throwing up flowers had tapered off to nearly nothing. Was it because he was forcing himself to think about anything but his bard? Maybe. Or maybe it was because he wasn’t around Jaskier any more. Either way it was almost a blessing. Did it outweigh the loneliness? No. But at least he didn’t have to stop multiple times a day to find a place where he could choke up flowers in private. It was a small victory, and something Geralt would take. 

However that seemed to be the only improvement after parting ways with Jaskier. Everything else was just, so much worse. Geralt threw himself into hunting to compensate. He had no time to think about Jaskier when he was deep in the woods somewhere tangling with something. So what if he ran himself ragged? At least he wasn’t thinking. He came back to inns too tired to think, and by the time he had a chance to, it was already time for him to get back on the road once more. 

Occasionally, when Jaskier  _ did  _ pop into his mind, Geralt had to find a moment to pull Roach off of the road and take a moment to cough up blood and arbutus flowers into a ditch. Over time the flowers that had once been pristine white had been collecting more and more splotches of red. It would likely be concerning to anyone with real common sense, but he’d stopped caring a while ago. And as long as he could right himself after the fact, he would continue on as if nothing had happened. It wasn’t like his horse could comment on his health. 

Eventually, as time passed, the first snow fell. Geralt didn’t appreciate it as much as Jaskier would have. He made sure Roach was set up in a nice stable, and watched the flakes fall from a lumpy inn bed. At least there was a fire in the fireplace and he had managed to obtain a hot cider to warm his hands as he watched the snow dust over a small backwater town. 

It was the first time in a while that he had to push himself out of bed to throw up flowers in the wastebasket. He couldn’t help but think about how Jaskier would have reacted to the snow. He had no doubt that Jaskier would have pulled him outside to take in the quiet world covered in fresh white powder. Jaskier had a real talent for appreciating all facets of life. Even those that Geralt had no real place in his heart for, like snow. 

But he recovered eventually, dragging himself back to bed as his vision swam and stomach lurched in protest. He managed to lay back on his side, turning his attention out to the world once more as he longed for someone else to share warmth and company with. 

A couple walked home through the snow, the woman holding an arm above her head as if it would help keep the snow off of her. Geralt could hear fragments of her conversation with her husband through the evening air. He didn’t care much to listen to it, but it was something to do so he didn’t think about the absence encroaching on his mind. As they walked, the woman leaned into her partner more, her free arm hooked through his. To anyone else it may have been a heartwarming sight. Geralt just ended up rolling over and putting his back to the window. 

In the end the night wasn’t remarkable beyond that. Geralt rose the next morning and trudged to the edge of town to deal with a wraith that had taken up residence in the town graveyard. 

After getting roughed up and finally disposing of the thing, he moved on. There was always more to be done, something else to turn his attention to. Eventually though, Geralt knew people would begin to run low on coin, and that would spell trouble for him. He’d been shorted more times than he could count, of course, and had his fair share of times when he wasn’t paid at all. But it was even harder than usual for him to get paid in the lean months. That could quickly spell disaster for him, nobody was going to help a witcher with food or lodging out of the kindness of their heart. He doubted he could even find a place to have Roach stay for the winter… Unless. 

It was a stupid idea, but Geralt had been no stranger to those in his life. And it wasn’t uncommon for him to put Roach’s needs above his own. There was one person that he knew, for a fact, would take the mare in without hesitation. 

Did it hurt? Yes. But for her sake, Geralt had a feeling he could make it work. At least, he hoped so. 

So with a bit of reluctance, he turned his course towards Oxenfurt. 

The days continued to get shorter, and colder as time passed. It just kept getting worse for Geralt. He started to wear layers even under his armor. But it didn’t do much to help when he produced little body heat on his own. At least Roach was warm, and provided him with a little bit of heat. 

Despite all of that, the journey continued. And as they drew closer and closer to the college, Geralt’s attacks became more frequent. They were still steadily getting worse. Though nothing had quite reached the magnitude of what had happened the night of the festival in terms of severity. He was sure that the frequency had everything to do with his thoughts. Because the closer he drew to the college, the more he thought about Jaskier. He’d escorted his bard to Oxenfurt’s grounds before, and the familiar sights had a pit yawning in his stomach. Regrets whipped through Geralt’s mind as the days passed. If he was caught by Jaskier, he was sure that the bard would have words with him. 

He was thankful that he arrived at Oxenfurt at night. Just outside of the town he’d taken another moment to cough up blood and flowers into the snow. It’d left a huge red splatter at the side of the road, but Geralt had forced his way on. It would be covered by snow by the time he left once more anyways. There was snow already coming down in thick flakes, covering Geralt’s shoulders and caking into Roach’s mane and tail. He’d made a few attempts to dust it off of Roach but to no avail, besides, it didn’t seem to bother her too much. 

Geralt on the other hand, didn’t feel amazing. The cold had seeped into his bones and he was pretty sure his fingers were frozen around the reins. He couldn’t feel his legs below the knee or his arms below the elbow. Honestly it was better than the ache that had settled into his back from the cold and tension he held in his shoulders. 

The dark streets were near empty, there were no other travellers, and only a few people here and there hurrying home in the incoming blizzard. He wasn’t fond of the idea of travelling and camping in it, but he didn’t exactly have any other choice. At least he wouldn’t be putting Roach through the same treatment as he would himself. And maybe without a horse to worry about he could make the trek to Kaer Morhen on his own? It was a foolish hope, but something he could keep his mind on as Oxenfurt loomed into view. 

The college was oozing with warm light, any activity within was muffled by thick stone walls and the snowfall that seemed to cast the world in an eerie silence. 

There were still guards posted at the gate of the college, however, and Geralt eyed them as he approached. They were honestly his best bet at getting Roach to settled. Despite the fact that they were both giving him reproachful looks. 

He did his best to ignore that much as he drew Roach to a stop and forced his limbs to move. Despite some excessive wiggling, he couldn’t get feeling back in his fingers or toes. But nonetheless he pushed on, putting his weight onto one stirrup and sliding out of the saddle. Roach eyed him curiously as he pushed his hood back and took her reins to lead her to the gate. 

“What business do you have here witcher?” One of the guards spoke up as Geralt drew closer. 

“I need to deliver a horse to-” Geralt cleared his throat, noting the thick tang of iron as he did so. “- Jaskier.” He realized that Jaskier’s name hadn’t even passed his lips since he’d left the bard in autumn. That much set off the ache in his chest like nothing else even as the guards eyed him warily. 

“Tell him it’s Roach, he’ll know.” Geralt sighed when they didn’t respond. The guards looked at each other for a moment before one moved to go fetch someone. 

“Sure, you just stay out here.” The other guard didn’t take his gaze off of Geralt. The witcher nodded quietly before turning to collect his things from Roach’s saddlebags. Slinging a pack onto his own shoulders wasn’t a new feeling but it had been a while since he’d carried his gear. Roach’s confusion, however, continued to persist. She tried to nose at Geralt several times, almost stepping away as he tried to fasten her saddlebags shut once more. He wouldn’t need her tack or anything. Hell, he probably wouldn’t see her again either. 

He dug a sugar cube from the small stash in her saddlebags and walked around to her head. Wide brown eyes watched him curiously as he ran a hand down her forehead and nose. 

The mare delicately took the offered sugar cube when Geralt held it out to her, crunching away while still watching her witcher. He hadn’t expected walking away from a horse to hurt as much as it did. He’d had Roach for so long, she’d been with him even when Jaskier wasn’t. When the rest of the world had turned their backs on him she had just snuffled at his pockets looking for treats. Even then she butted her head against his shoulder. It sent Geralt leaning forward, running his hands under the horse’s jaw as he bumped his forehead against hers. At least he knew she would be in good hands with Jaskier. He knew the bard cared for her almost as much as he did. She would get plenty of sugar cubes and attention in the stables of Oxenfurt. 

But if he didn’t walk away soon, he wasn’t going to be able to. The second guard was returning and Geralt had to steel himself as he walked over to the other man. 

“Here, I have somewhere else to be.” He cleared his throat again, eyes flicking between Roach and the space above the other man’s shoulder as he offered the guard her reins. 

“I- alright.” The man offered no real protest, obviously mildly uncomfortable with the witcher standing right in front of him. But he took the reins nonetheless. Geralt had to force himself to let go, giving Roach one last pat down the neck before he finally turned to leave. 

He didn’t look back, pulling his hood back up as he walked. Behind him he heard the shifting of hooves, a snort and the sound of someone trying to calm Roach. One glance back shot pain up Geralt’s throat. The brown mare had craned her head around, eyes following him, wide still with confusion. He had left her with stablehands before, but apparently she could tell something was wrong. 

It was a battle to turn around and keep walking, but Geralt pushed on. One foot in front of the other, he continued. He wanted to be out of town at least by the time the snowfall started to really pick up. The darkness was hard enough to navigate as it was, what with the clouds blotting out the moon. But at least the warm golden light that spilled out of windows was enough to navigate by. Somewhere, faintly, he mused that he should invest in better boots for the winter. Only to remind himself yet again that he wasn’t likely to need them for long. 

The streets continued on however, and Geralt did as well. And honestly he made good time despite the snow and the profound ache in his chest. He’d said goodbye to Roach at least, unlike Jaskier. Of course, she couldn’t understand it, she was a fucking  _ horse  _ after all. But it counted, he figured. And it was better this way. The last thing he wanted was to die, and for Roach to be left somewhere, untended to, alone, cold. Even the idea of that hurt more than passing her off to someone else. 

Geralt did his best to distract himself as he walked, taking in a deep, sighing breath in the cold air. It would be good for his legs, to actually get some walking in. He would have to stop more often from exhaustion because he couldn’t nod off on his feet, but he would make it work. Sleeping in short shifts would likely do him better anyways. Bedding down with a whole campfire and the like every time would be nice but it wasn’t incredibly practical. It meant clearing a place for a fire, as well as finding firewood, makeshift shelter, everything of the sort. 

Whatever he ended up doing, Geralt knew he would figure it out, and then he wouldn’t have to worry about it for long. There was also the possibility that he could make more time by pushing himself harder than he would dare push Roach. He tried to keep his thoughts on the positives for the time being. It wouldn’t do for him to get worked up for no reason. Roach was safe and cared for, and that was what mattered above all. 

The walk out of town was much slower alone, the fact that Geralt’s feet had long since lost feeling was quickly proving to be a benefit. It was still bitterly cold outside, if he was human, he was sure his breath would have been fogging the air with every exhale. As it was there were faint dark spots floating at the edges of his vision. Then again they may have been around since he’d been doubled over in the snow choking on flowers and his own blood. 

  
Eventually the bridge out of town leered out of the dark. Geralt forced himself to straighten up once more, abandoning the lights of the town in favor of continuing out onto the open road. Past the bridge it looked like there were only a few houses with their lights on dotting the countryside. He would be entirely in the dark, more alone than ever. It would be fine, Geralt reprimanded himself for thinking about it too much as he struck out across the bridge. While he wasn’t sure how long he’d been walking, he knew it was going to be a long night. After all it felt like he should have been entirely across the bridge by the time he was only halfway. 

Geralt wasn’t too lost in his thoughts that he missed the sound of thundering hoofbeats. Shit, likely someone trying to get out of town in a hurry. He didn’t bother lifting his head, just moving off to the side out of the way of any horse crossing. Despite everything else, getting trampled by a horse didn’t sound like an amazing idea in all honesty. 

But the horse’s steps were quickly sliding to a halt near him, and Geralt couldn’t help but wonder what was going on until a shout cut through the otherwise silent night air. 

“ _ Geralt of Rivia you turn yourself around right now! _ ” A familiar voice sent a shock down Geralt’s voice, and he couldn’t help but wheel around to look at the man clambering down off of Roach. 

Jaskier was a mess, it looked like he’d thrown on boots and a cloak over nightclothes. His face was flushed red from the cold, his hair tousled and unkempt, already full of snow. He hadn’t even fastened the cloak he had thrown over his shoulders. 

“No! You do not get to just  _ do this! _ ” The bard was already leaning into a tirade, and Geralt couldn’t have responded even if he wanted to as Jaskier advanced on him, drawing his cloak about himself in the cold as he gestured wildly with his other hand, shoving a finger in Geralt’s face. 

“You  _ vanish  _ in the middle of the fucking night-” Jaskier was worked up, more worked up than Geralt had seen him in a long time, and honestly. It was deserved. He deserved to be shouted at, he’d caused Jaskier a good bit of grief. And if the bard wanted to yell at him in the middle of the night in a blizzard, so be it. 

“- I don’t even  _ see  _ you for  _ THREE MONTHS!  _ And suddenly you show up to what? Give me your fucking horse?” He was out of breath, shaking in the cold, but he obviously wasn’t done. Geralt just looked on, stunned by the fury that Jaskier had come at him with. Roach looked on silently, shifting idly in the snow, ears flicking back and forth. 

“All of this for what Geralt? For fucking  _ what _ ? No explanation, no goodbye. And what? I’m just supposed to be  _ okay with it _ ?” Jaskier snarled. He was practically in Geralt’s face at that point, and the witcher almost felt like he was supposed to back up. He’d never seen Jaskier so angry at anyone except for maybe Valdo Marx. But that was different. Usually that kind of seething anger wasn’t directed at him. 

“ _ Fuck  _ Geralt! You can’t just-” Jaskier made another broad gesture, drawing himself up even though there were tears beginning to gloss over his eyes. “- you can’t just  _ do that  _ to someone.” 

“I’m sorry.” Geralt finally managed a low croak. He didn’t know what else to say, he was, he really was. He’d never wanted to hurt Jaskier, and he was just trying to go with the lesser of two evils. He figured that letting Jaskier be mad about him leaving would be better than the bard seeing him die someday soon. But Jaskier seemed to loudly disagree. Loudly enough that Geralt would be surprised if he hadn’t woken up the entire town by that point. 

“Sorry? You’re sorry now, alright.” He ran shaking hands over his face, presumably steeling himself. Geralt listened to the other man draw a slow breath, unsure of how else to respond. He’d had people angry at him before but never like whatever this was. 

“Do you have  _ ANY _ idea how worried I have been?” Jaskier hissed, those angry blue eyes locking on Geralt again. It was obvious that he wasn’t done, and honestly the witcher wasn’t going to speak up again until he was. Jaskier was going to go on his tirade until he was finished, whether or not Geralt actually listened. He was listening, of course, but Jaskier obviously had a lot to say. 

“I guess not because you didn’t even bother to leave a damn note. But I saw you throw up flowers and  _ blood _ and then you just vanish off the face of the world? I have been out of my  _ mind _ worried about you!” His tone didn’t let up even a fraction, he was obviously seething. He had a right to be, especially if he’d been worried. Guilt had been gnawing a pit in Geralt’s stomach since he’d left Jaskier. It seemed to drop further even then, with Jaskier glaring him down, angry tears rolling down his cheeks. His face wasn’t just red from cold but from anger. 

“How was I supposed to know you didn’t just drop dead somewhere Geralt? I’ve only heard about that flower thing in tales. And then you somehow contract it and as soon as I find out you take off without warning.” A decent stretch of silence followed as Jaskier tore his eyes away, shoulders heaving slightly as he caught his breath. It was hard enough to breathe in the freezing air. Geralt was sure it was a little easier for Jaskier, but he was also doing all of the yelling. Either way Geralt felt awful. All of Jaskier’s anguish was because of him. If he had stuck around Jaskier wouldn’t be upset, if he’d not fallen for the other man so hard, he wouldn’t have had to leave. 

Geralt didn’t bother to try to talk, Jaskier would let him know when his lecture was over. For the moment he allowed the silence to flood back in, glancing back at Roach as she shook her head to dislodge the snow from her mane. 

Apparently it was enough of a distraction that Geralt missed the flicker of movement before Jaskier practically slammed into him. 

The force of the hug he was crushed into was startling. Something in the back of Geralt’s mind lit up with instinctual panic, and it was all he could do to repress the urge to bolt. But Jaskier was crowded against him in the cold, arms thrown tight around his neck and body pressed up against Geralt’s cold armor. 

“I thought I lost you, you absolute  _ bastard _ .” Jaskier growled, fingers clutching at the back of Geralt’s armor. It took Geralt a beat before he could respond to the hug, blinking slowly and then shifting to wrap his arms around Jaskier. The months without his bard had been too long, and it was almost against his will that Geralt pulled Jaskier closer, buckling to press his face into Jaskier’s cold, snow-soaked hair. All he could smell was the damp cloth and the heat of the bard’s skin, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Jaskier was trembling faintly against him, and Geralt had curled his fingers into the fabric of Jaskier’s shirt, like it would keep his bard there in his arms. 

He wasn’t going to be able to leave again. The realization made him want to scream. Geralt didn’t want to inflict his death on Jaskier. But he couldn’t leave when he knew it was going to hurt Jaskier so badly. The fact that Jaskier wanted him around at all was still baffling. 

“You’re cold as death Geralt.” Jaskier mumbled after a long moment, voice faintly muffled between Geralt’s neck and the front of his armor. 

“I know.” Geralt mustered, letting his eyes fall shut as he let Jaskier cling to him. Or… honestly he was doing just as much clinging. He just wasn’t going to admit it any time soon. After all he didn’t want to give anything away. The hug was, all in all, very welcome. It had been so long since he’d had any kind of contact from anyone, and he had been missing Jaskier the entire time. So after all that, standing in the cold with Jaskier clutching at him like he was going to run away again, he wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. 

“You need to come in and warm up. No arguments.” Jaskier began to pull away, and Geralt almost didn’t let him. For a moment he held tight before pulling away and drawing himself up once more. One half of his face was damp from Jaskier’s hair, but he honestly wasn’t complaining at all. He looked down at Jaskier for a moment as the other man lifted his hands to dry his own face. His eyes had gone more red from tears, but the witcher certainly wasn’t going to bring it up. For the time being he just gave Jaskier a small nod. He wasn’t going to be able to leave anyways. Not with Jaskier looking at him like that, like he was going to run at any available moment. 

Jaskier took another moment to breathe before he was moving back over to Roach, pulling himself up on the horse and taking up her reins. Geralt for once offered no protest. He wasn’t willing to fight with Jaskier, nor did he particularly care. A warm fire to sit by and a roof over his head just sounded really nice for the time being. He was fine with walking, but as he moved to step past Jaskier and the horse, the bard shot him an expectant look. 

“Well? Are you getting on the horse or not Geralt.” Jaskier huffed, motioning for Geralt to mount up behind him. 

The witcher blinked up at Jaskier for a moment, turning over the offer in his head. And honestly? He hurt, he was cold, the idea of riding behind Jaskier wasn’t too bad. So after a moment Geralt steeled himself, before moving over to pull himself up behind Jaskier. It was more difficult than usual without putting his foot in the stirrup, but he managed fine, before he’d settled in behind Jaskier. 

It was instinct to wind his arms around Jaskier’s waist. He was too cold and tired to think. His body had gone numb, and thinking properly had long since gone out of the window. For the time being, Jaskier was warm, and the bard melted back into him as soon as he’d gotten settled in the saddle. It was comfortable enough that Geralt even dropped his head to rest on Jaskier’s shoulder, not thinking, just allowing himself to enjoy the quiet warmth as Jaskier cooed at Roach and turned her back towards Oxenfurt. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I go again posting at 3am. But the chapter is done before I'm about to get bodyslammed by a cold. So if ya'll don't hear from me for a while that's why.
> 
> Anyways! Enjoy

“You’re dripping on my carpet.” Jaskier grumbled as he ushered Geralt through his rooms. The fire in the fireplace had already been banked for the night, but still oozed a creeping heat through the space. 

The witcher couldn’t help but shrink closer to the fire as Jaskier guided him to stand in front of it. He’d trailed Jaskier through the college as the snow on his shoulders had thawed and he’d begun to feel his face again. Jaskier’s mood hadn’t let up, there was still a dark scowl on the bard’s face, warning Geralt against any kind of protest he may have had. And honestly, he didn’t have the energy to say much anyways. The chill had gotten through to his bones, biting into his muscle structure with every move. 

“Is there anything in your packs that isn’t entirely soaked through?” Jaskier asked dryly. Geralt felt strong hands across his shoulders, working under the straps of his pack before he was shifting to allow Jaskier to pull it off of him completely. 

“I’m not sure.” He spoke up quietly, turning to put his back to the fire as Jaskier moved to kneel and open the bag. Normally Geralt would have said something about it, Jaskier didn’t often go into his things, but part of him really was too tired to really care. He was just starting to be able to feel his hands again, and he was ready to curl up somewhere and sleep. Not until Jaskier was finished with him though, he owed his bard that much at least. After all the grief he’d caused. 

Jaskier made a noise of acknowledgement before he was sifting through Geralt’s clothes. Things were set on the hearth to dry as Jaskier tested everything carefully. 

His bard looked… Healthy? On one hand, yes, on the other hand Jaskier looked as tired as Geralt felt. He’d tossed his cloak onto a hook by the door when they’d come in, and his hair was still damp from the snow. But there were dark circles under his eyes, and it had been a day or two since he had shaved. He moved deliberately, like he was simply doing a task that was assigned to him. It was all a far cry from the usual energy Jaskier had. And Geralt found himself wondering faintly if it was Jaskier’s annoyance or the college doing such things to him.

Geralt opened his mouth to offer his help after a long moment, Jaskier didn’t need to be mothering him or anything of the sort. But before he could say anything, he was met with a sharp glare, and Jaskier nodded to an empty space on the hearth. 

“Get yourself warmed up Geralt.” The comment wasn’t a suggestion, and Geralt only hesitated for a moment before he sunk down to sit on the warm hearth. Jaskier continued what he was doing, eventually deciding on a set of clothes that seemed serviceably dry. The clothes were set aside on an armchair before Jaskier was getting to his feet once more, and stepping in the next room. 

It all gave Geralt a second to breathe, look around. The room was nice, decently sized. A comfortable looking bed dominated one corner, all of the bedding rumpled and well slept-in. Covers had obviously been haphazardly tossed aside not long ago, all in a pile on one half of the bed. Cool shreds of moonlight spilled across the folds of fabric, coming from the windows on the far left wall of the room. Across from the foot of the bed there was a closet, the door ajar in the half light, enough that Geralt could see a handful of clothing hanging. 

The rest of the room was lightly furnished, against the wall across from the bed there was a large desk, with papers and books scattered about it. Several charcoal pencils caught flickers of dim light. Other than that however, there were two chairs in front of the fire, facing vaguely towards it. One was partially covered by the contents of Geralt’s pack after Jaskier had gone through all of it. The other had a dressing gown tossed over the back of it. 

Before Geralt had time to fully take in the space, Jaskier stepped out of the washroom with a thick towel in hand. 

“You need to dry yourself off and leave those clothes to dry by the fire.” The towel was shoved at him as Jaskier glanced at the mess he’d made, wrinkling his nose. Geralt knew he’d probably be cleaning it up as soon as Jaskier left him alone for a moment. He didn’t want to make a mess in Jaskier’s space. He hadn’t really been… invited after all. Jaskier had just wanted him out of the cold and snow. Hell, Geralt was still torn about whether or not he was going to leave again. He didn’t want to hurt Jaskier but… He didn’t want to die on the bard’s time either. It was all a lot to think about. Especially when he was just barely getting his circulation back and he was too tired to think about much of anything. 

“Jaskier-” Geralt finally spoke up quietly, he was met with a sharp look from his bard. Blue eyes locked on him, expectant, annoyed. It was so unfamiliar that it nearly made Geralt recoil. Guilt wormed through his insides again, twisting through him like a parasite as he held Jaskier’s gaze for a moment. For once he was first to look away, swallowing as he scrambled for his next words. 

“- you don’t have to go through the trouble-” He was cut off as Jaskier caught his attention again.    
  


“I know, Geralt, I’m not an idiot.” He snapped. “ _ Typically _ people who care about each other take care of one another.” There was a sharp edge to Jaskier’s voice that had Geralt pausing again. Clearly Jaskier was still upset. Maybe he just needed time to cool down? It may just be best to talk to him tomorrow about the whole thing. As much as Geralt wanted to take in his presence for the time being, Jaskier was still seething. It wasn’t unexpected in all honesty, Geralt just hadn’t realized to what extent Jaskier’s anger was going to reach. For the time being he just nodded, working his jaw slightly and lifting the towel he had been handed. 

“I’m going to change.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so… scolded. It was rare for anyone to come at a witcher in such a way. He was used to scorn sure. Or just, disgust, fear, all sorts of other things. Never whatever the hell Jaskier was directing at him for the time being. It felt like he was walking on eggshells. He’d been conscious of Jaskier’s emotional state before of course, but never had he wanted to be so careful to not upset the other man. Geralt ached to go back to when Jaskier had hugged him on the bridge, or the ride back to Oxenfurt where he’d had his face pressed into the crook of Jaskier’s neck. 

For the time being Jaskier just made a motion towards the washroom, and Geralt collected his clothes before heading into the next room. 

There was little light in the room but it was enough for the witcher. He dropped his clothes and the clean towel on a counter before he proceeded to strip, his drenched cloak coming off first. Once the sodden cloak was off Geralt busied himself with peeling off everything else. His skin was slick with cool water, strings of hair clinging to his neck and the sides of his face. 

Compared to the front room the washroom was dark and quiet. A small window near the top of the wall offered light and a small view of the outside world. Thick flakes of snow still descended from the sky, occasionally coming to rest on the windowsill. Overall it was a quiet breath to steel himself for whatever was to come. Jaskier had every right to be angry with him. To be fair, he had thought he was doing the right thing, but Jaskier obviously hadn’t seen it that way, and had been hurting about it. It was understandable that he would upset. 

Geralt just, hadn’t thought he’d have to deal with it, he supposed. 

He took a moment to dry himself off, rubbing a towel down his face and over his skin. While the bathroom was cool enough that the shiver running through him returned full force, he didn’t let it speed up what he was doing too much. He took his time as he ran the towel down his legs, before eventually moving to pull on the fresh clothing Jaskier had picked out of his bags. His fingers were still a little numb and clumsy from the cold, but at least he had significantly more feeling in them after a decent stint in the heat of Jaskier’s rooms. 

After a good few minutes, Geralt toweled off his hair once more before collecting his things and stepping out of the washroom once more. 

Jaskier was sitting in one of the armchairs in front of the fire, and he didn’t look up when he heard the door close behind Geralt. Instead he motioned for Geralt to put his wet clothes on the hearth. The witcher complied quietly, making sure the wet garments were properly laid out before he hesitantly took up the spot across from Jaskier. 

It seemed like some of the raw anger had faded, but he still wasn’t willing to push his luck. Instead he just let silence prevail, lacing his fingers together as he leaned his forearms on his knees and watched the fire. He could appreciate the warmth at least, and the sound of Jaskier breathing a few feet away. All simple comforts, but ones he’d been without for far too long, even if it had just been a few months. 

“So how long do you think you have?” Jaskier finally spoke up after about ten minutes of nothing. Geralt’s nerves were fraying under the weight of the absolute stillness between them, but he wasn’t sure he liked the question much more. Especially when Jaskier sounded so, resigned to it. It was a fair thing to ask, sure. But he didn’t like that Jaskier had come to that so quickly. 

“I’m not sure.” He rasped, turning to actually look to Jaskier. The bard had curled in on himself slightly, still refusing to look at Geralt. The guilt boiled back up within him, but Geralt stayed quiet as Jaskier turned the thought over quietly. He didn’t want to push the conversation or upset Jaskier again. So he waited, rubbing his fingertips over the back of his hand idly and trying not to think about anything. 

“You obviously don’t think you have that long.” The statement was punctuated by Jaskier clearing his throat, finally looking back over to the witcher. Geralt didn’t back down at the unexpected eye contact. But he also wasn’t sure what to do about it. Sure, the room was warm, but the atmosphere between himself and Jaskier had grown uncomfortably cold and he wasn’t sure he liked it at all. It had him floundering. His bard wasn’t displaying any of his usual tales, he was quiet, nowhere near as animated as he always seemed to be. Geralt wasn’t sure how to handle Jaskier like that. All of it was so foreign to him. 

“Why else would you try to leave Roach with me?” Jaskier pressed on after a dragging moment of quiet. 

Geralt blinked at that. Jaskier… had a point, honestly. Roach had been his constant companion for years. He wasn’t just going to abandon her for no reason. Even if it was going to be a harsh winter. If he’d had plans to retrieve her come spring, Jaskier probably knew he would have put her up in a stable somewhere. Making the trek to Oxenfurt seemed counterproductive when he could have just boarded her elsewhere or taken her to Kaer Morhen with him. Especially after leaving Jaskier with no warning. 

“I’m still not sure how long it will be.” He finally replied, looking away from Jaskier. There was no use hiding it when the other man already seemed to know what was going on. All it had taken was one misstep on Geralt’s part, and Jaskier had gotten all the information he needed to know that Geralt’s days were numbered, and why. Of course it was likely that he didn’t know who was the cause of everything, not that Geralt was going to tell him anyways. 

The quiet drew out again after that. Geralt struggled to think of anything else to say, tried to formulate an apology that didn’t sound like he was trying to brush things off. Not that Jaskier was likely to forgive him anyways. It wasn’t like he had to after all. Hell, it was plausible that Jaskier even hated him, for what he’d done. Geralt would understand if he did, it made sense. He hadn’t even left a note, or bothered to tell Jaskier where he was going, that he didn’t plan to return. In retrospect it was just, a shitty thing to inflict on someone else. And yet, at the time it seemed like the lesser of two evils, it still did. 

“So who is it?” Jaskier finally broke the silence once more, startling Geralt again. The question dug through his mind, lighting him up with panic as he watched the fire’s ever-shifting glow. It had nearly been reduced to embers, the room getting steadily darker as he and Jaskier sat together, tense, uncomfortable. As it was things had already gotten pretty dim, the bard was likely starting to struggle to see much beyond the armchairs they shared. But despite how focused he was on the fire, Geralt couldn’t ignore the question, as much as he wanted to. 

“I don’t know.” He tried to lie, but his voice wavered slightly. His tone almost betrayed some kind of pain. Telling Jaskier would mean putting that burden on him. Somehow it felt like casting blame in a sense. Even if it would never be Jaskier’s fault. Geralt should have just… not fallen for him in the first place. Had he been able to control his own emotions, they may have been in a ver different situation at that very moment. 

“You don’t know.” Jaskier echoed with a sigh. It was obvious from how he repeated the statement that he didn’t believe it. Geralt knew how Jaskier worked. And he knew that the reverse was true. Jaskier had gotten far too good at reading him. If anyone else had been able to tune into his behaviors so completely he would have tried to keep away from them. But Jaskier had always been different. He’d been comfortable. 

“You know that this, sickness, doesn’t  _ have  _ to be a death sentence, right?” The bard asked, giving Geralt a few beats to respond. The witcher could only nod slightly. He knew, of course he knew. But the alternate options weren’t going to cut it. Either he somehow found a witch or wizard that knew how to remove the plants from his body. Or he somehow got Jaskier to love him in return. Which was just a non-option in general. 

“So why not get it taken out?” The other man’s tone had softened a bit at that point. He sounded less angry and more, quietly concerned. While Geralt’s nerves hadn’t let up at that point, at least Jaskier didn’t seem to be actively angry at him any more. That much was a relief. 

And then there was the question at hand. Geralt didn’t want to have to admit it. He spent too much time with Jaskier to just, have it removed. From what he’d heard and the little he’d read, it sounded like having the plants removed would make him completely apathetic towards his bard. That seemed almost worse than the alternative, and it would let Jaskier know, loud and clear, that he was the one that Geralt had fallen for. He didn’t want to burden his best friend with that. 

“It’s better this way… Easier.” Geralt looked down at his hands, rubbing his thumb over a scar on his palm. It was a stupid answer, but it was true at least. 

“Better?” Jaskier scoffed, it nearly made Geralt wince, the snap behind Jaskier’s voice. 

“I know your spiel about ‘I don’t want anyone needing me’ or whatever the  _ fuck  _ you go on about Geralt. But that is the  _ stupidest  _ thing that has ever come out of your mouth.” The harsh edge of Jaskier’s words had Geralt looking back up at the bard. Jaskier was already looking at him, a scowl plastered across his face. 

“You dying is better than having it removed. You would rather  _ die  _ than lose feelings for one person? When you say you don’t even know who it is?” He forged on. Geralt almost wanted to shy away from what Jaskier was saying. He had no real defense. Telling Jaskier that it was him would only hurt the bard. Jaskier was human and humans were like that. They took things so personally sometimes, and he was sure that even if it wasn’t Jaskier’s fault, he would feel like it was. Which was something Geralt never wanted to inflict on the other man if he could avoid it. 

“It’s not that simple Jaskier.” Geralt’s hear twisted painfully as Jaskier went in on him. He understood Jaskier’s outrage, he Would have been just as upset if the roles were reversed. But that didn’t mean he had to enjoy being snapped at by the one person he trusted completely. Especially when he hadn’t expected to interact with Jaskier at all after he had left so many months ago. But he supposed that was what he got for being predictable. 

“Geralt do you understand how completely insane you sound?” Jaskier leaned forward in his chair, gesturing at the witcher who only met Jaskier’s eyes in fleeting moments. He couldn’t bear to look the other man in the eye when he knew he was so completely in the wrong. It was this entire situation that had driven him away in the first place. The idea of such a conversation having to take place had been enough to send him packing. He didn’t want to hurt Jaskier, truly. And trying to manage what would hurt his bard the least was quickly becoming incredibly difficult. One misstep and he would either give everything away or hurt Jaskier beyond repair. Or both, in the case of telling the other man. 

“I do.” He sighed, watching Jaskier rub his hands over his face, beyond exasperated and upset. Putting Jaskier through such stress just made him feel that much worse. He just wanted to go back to the night of the festival, so his last memories of Jaskier could be there. Warm, smiling and full of the spark of life. Not as he was in the current moment, tired, stressed, he looked like the weight of the world had been unceremoniously dumped on his shoulders. And Geralt knew it was entirely his fault. 

“I can’t do this with you right now Geralt. I have a class to teach in the morning, we both need rest-” Jaskier pushed his hands up through his hair, he looked like he was about to pass out anyways. It was unsurprising, the evening had been eventful for them both. 

“-your housing arrangements fell through since you just. Didn’t show up. So you’ll have to stay with me until we can get something else sorted for you.” More than anything Jaskier just sounded tired, which was honestly entirely fair. Geralt didn’t blame him for a moment. And he was just as eager to rest as Jaskier was. 

“You’d be alright with that?” Geralt asked quietly. He would be fine with sharing a bed with Jaskier, after all the one provided for the time being was certainly large enough for the both of them. After everything though, he wouldn’t be surprised if Jaskier would prefer him further away. Once again he would understand. He wouldn’t want to be close to himself either. 

“I still care about you Geralt. Now let’s go to bed before I kill you myself.” Jaskier sighed, pushing himself up from his seat. Geralt watched him for a long moment as Jaskier crossed the room to climb back into bed. Though before he could do so he turned back to the witcher with an expectant look. 

“Are you coming or not?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. Geralt blinked before nodding and getting to his feet as well. Jaskier almost looked like he wanted to roll his eyes as he properly got into bed. He was quick to move over to the side towards the window, leaving the covers open for Geralt as well. 

The witcher wasn’t complaining, he hadn’t slept next to a warm body since the night before the festival. He’d missed Jaskier so much it hurt. Even then he could still feel the ache in his chest. Something held him back still, even if Jaskier seemed determined to rest and save the rest of their conversation for the next day, that didn’t mean the air between them was clear. So he was careful to keep his distance from Jaskier as he settled in. Jaskier had already settled down, back-to him as he pulled the covers up to his chin. 

Abruptly ending the conversation in such a way really was jarring, but Geralt had no energy to protest. In an instant he was far more focused on the warmth of Jaskier at his side again as he got comfortable. The bed was higher quality than anything he’d experienced in a while. Paired with the warmth of Jaskier nearby, it was all comforting enough that Geralt was closing his eyes and trying to relax relatively quickly. 

He doubted sleep would come easy, there was still stress flowing through his veins. And he was worried that anything from Jaskier might set off a reaction that would only give him away more. So he laid still and forced the physical tension out of his body, keeping track of Jaskier and his movements as he tried to at least rest. 

A good amount of time passed in quiet, and Geralt was almost certain Jaskier had fallen completely asleep when he heard the other man shift. He didn’t bother opening his eyes. Instead he just focused on Jaskier’s movements. Geralt had settled still facing the other man, but it hadn’t been a point of thought until Jaskier was facing him, and suddenly Geralt wondered if he should have been on his other side. It had just been far too long since he’d had a chance to be next to his bard. But he wasn’t complaining if Jaskier wasn’t. In all honesty Geralt was just enjoying being able to count Jaskier’s breaths and feel the warmth of someone else next to him as he tried to sleep. 

He thought that Jaskier had been rolling over for comfort’s sake. So the gentle touch against his temple nearly made him flinch. 

In a moment, Geralt was blinking his eyes open, confused as Jaskier’s fingertips grazed across his skin, brushing damp strands of hair out of his face. He met Jaskier’s eyes with a questioning look, easily taking in the pained look on Jaskier’s face, even in the darkness. After everything, why was Jaskier being soft with him? It wouldn’t have been that odd had the situation been normal. Jaskier was always overly touchy, always had been. But when he’d been so angry not even half an hour before? It was an odd heel-turn that Grealt hadn’t been prepared for.    
  


“Why do you have to be like this Geralt?” Jaskier’s question reached out between them, his voice quiet, shaky. His breath hitched faintly in his chest as he pulled his hand back, hugging it against himself. And honestly, Geralt had no idea how to reply to something like that. In simple terms it was because he didn’t want to hurt Jaskier more than he had to. But it was so much more complicated than that. 

“I’m sorry.” He finally rasped, looking to the pillow instead of Jaskier’s face. The bard wore his emotions too proudly on his sleeve sometimes. While Geralt would never tell him to do otherwise, it just hurt to see sometimes. Especially when his bard was hurting. 

Before he had a chance to say anything else, a flicker of movement caught his eye, and he looked back up to see Jaskier shifting and opening his arms. 

“Can we- I-” He cleared his throat. “-you know.” Jaskier looked to Geralt earnestly. It was such a far cry from how upset he had been earlier. Geralt had no idea how to process any of what he was being given. What he did know, however, was that he wouldn’t mind sharing Jaskier’s space. And once he’d decided that much, he shifted to accommodate the other man’s request. 

It was a bit unexpected still, how Jaskier’s arms folded around him, and how he was pulled down into the other man’s chest. But Jaskier was warm, and solid, and his grip was tight. Geralt had no intent of pulling away. Especially when he had a chance to tuck his head into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, draping an arm over his companion’s midsection and just breathing him in. 

Jaskier smelled like sleep and some kind of light soap, and residual dregs of snow and cold. It wasn’t as familiar as he would have liked, but it was enough to have him relaxing, soaking into Jaskier’s warmth and curling his fingers tight into the other man’s shirt. Was he doing an incredible job of keeping his secret? Perhaps not. But Jaskier had one hand in his hair, and it would have taken a wyvern or worse to pull him out of his bard’s grip. He let his eyes slide closed as he curled closer to Jaskier, allowing himself a moment of softness while all of the tension ran out of his body. It was easily banished by fingertips dragging through his hair, a warm hand splayed against his back, and the feeling of Jaskier hooking a leg under his, pulling him even closer. 

He was too tired and comfortable to say anything about it, just letting Jaskier hold on to him, and soaking in everything he had missed so horribly. 


End file.
